


Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

by matrixrefugee



Series: Cecie Martin [1]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thoughts of a young newcomer to Rouge City, as she settles in and gets to know its characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's note:

This forms a companion piece to "Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City". I had a bunch of ideas for various and sundry sketches of Joe and Cecie Martin—some predating "Runnin' Loose…"—which couldn't be developed into full-length stories, so I will be adding to this from time to time as I complete the chapters. This is very episodic and somewhat rhapsodic, and as always, a little sentimental. Dedicated to everyone who's read and reviewed my earlier "A.I." efforts, particularly Laurie E. Smith, whose "A.I." fictions helped me get started, and Lady Shadowcat, who emailed me an incredible review for "Runnin' Loose" when the review function was down: thanks, folks!; to fom4life, for getting on my back about some of my other efforts; to Dave Patten, for coming to my defense over one that was the PG-13 side of an R-rating; and to all Mecha-huggers out there.

Disclaimer:

I do not own "A.I.", its characters, settings, concepts, or other indicia, which are the property of the late Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al

Chapter 1: First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

Rouge City, U.S.A.

Incorporated as urban enclave under separate jurisdiction: June 29, 2162

City Manager: Destiny Rorschach

2160 population: 600,000 (Orga) 1,800,000 (Mecha)

Land area: 43.5 sq. km

Altitude: 303 feet

Location: Western bank of Delaware Seaway, near Southeastern East Pennsylvania…

Except for the bit with the population figures and the separate jurisdiction, it sounds sanitary, doesn't it? I've a heard a lot of ugly stories, probably amplified by retelling, about this town, "Sin City, Eastern Seaboard, U.S.A.", a city built specific for just one stock in trade: sex Mechas and their capabilities.

I really should start by introducing myself. My name's Cecie Martin. I've always been what most folk charitably call a harmless eccentric, or at worst a weird character. I was the hairline cybergoth type in the small Catholic high school I attended in the Western Massachusetts village I grew up in; no piercings, no dyed hair, no LEDs glued to my skin, but I favored wearing black and grey and shades of dark purple and maroon, black trench coats and mirrorshades, to the annoyance of the lay staff that ran the school. A learning disability crippled my math abilities, so I knew I wasn't going to be the next Euclid; but my ability to catch patterns of symbolism in literature, theatre and cinema made me the John Forbes Nash, jr. of the written and spoken word. I got to college on my English scores.

I never made many "normal" friends (Normal is a swear word in my vocabulary); I always tended to gravitate to the people just as harmlessly strange as myself. Why my next-door neighbors Philomena and Bernadette Connelly put up with me escapes even my facile brain. It could have been a simple case of opposites attracting: the two good little Catholic girls in their shapeless, ankle-length, plaid jumpers consorting with the tall, angular misfit in black garments, antiquated pendant watch swinging from her neck like the pendulum of life. They spent their Friday nights at home studying the Bible and the writings of the Church Fathers with their father, while I read my original poetry and sketches at an open mike night at a local coffeehouse or roving the streets, eavesdropping on humanity and their foibles.

I lost my father when I was in my early teens, so I sort of adopted Phila's dad as a surrogate father. "Sort of" is not a lame phrase here; the better I got to know him, the more I realized he wasn't my ideal male role model. My rebellious nature kicked like a mule when I got older and I started asserting my odd identity. He didn't approve of my choice of clothing, especially my penchant for wearing pants. Once he refused to let me into their house because he was concerned that the sight of my legs encased in simulcotton black pants (and they were baggy on me!) might incite his son to lust (In my generation, couples were allowed two kids tops; Bernadette was a cousin they had adopted after her parents died).

Phila and I went through two-year college together. She was active in all the Catholic groups: Regnum Christi, Nocturnal Adoration, two different Bible study groups. She was always trying to get me to join, but I had to turn her down. I'm all for Catholic action, but I'm a natural doer: I offer my every action as a prayer. I had my own extracurricular activities: drama group and a writer's guild. I was also working as a copywriter, which brought me a good income, plus I was writing fiction on the side; I had my deck stacked. She accused me of excluding God, especially in light of the eccentric crowd I hung with: one guy was a computer hacker, another was an actor who moonlighted as an escort (not many sex Mechas in New England), one gal leaned toward bisexuality (Phila really lit into me for that friendship), and one guy—the only one Phila even marginally approved of—would, by turns, talk about going into the seminary, or becoming a director of 2-Ds, and then he'd start flirting with some gal!

I came into a legacy after I finished college, so I decided to do a little traveling before I settled down. I hired an amphibicopter and explored the underwater ruins of Manhattan. I drove cross-country to see the ruins of Hollywood. On the way back, I made a stop in Rouge City, just to say I'd been there—but only to the folk who wouldn't judge me either way, certainly not to Phila, or her parents.

I stayed there only one night, which didn't give me much exposure, but it gave me the slightest taste of something else, a taste of the wild life without actually plunging into it feet first and maybe risking drowning in it. I kept to the lower deck, where most of the intransient Orga population lives, but once night fell, curiosity overrode my inhibitions and I decided to go up to the upper deck.

The lower deck is fairly rowdy in its own right, but it pales by contrast with the upper deck. Not to say you don't see many sex Mechas—mostly females—but they're mostly cheap older models, obviously artificial-looking, resembling the two-dollar hookers they were probably modeled after, the sort that wouldn't possibly fool Turing, but would fool the most sex-crazed hormonal teenage boys who sneak into the City.

But I gulped down my inhibitions and went aboveground.

What I saw as I stepped off the giant escalators into Main Plaza by turns made me cringe, made me laugh, and made me sigh.

What made me cringe? The sight of a fountain that crudely resembled a phallic Greek design from the late Hellenistic period; towers resembling women's legs upraised; domes shaped like breasts. I have an intense reverence for the human body (whether that body is made of carbon-based flesh and bone or silicon-based flesh and titanium), and I also took a class in aesthetic and symbolic art, so the sight of such crude use of the human form divine had me groaning slightly.

What made me laugh? The simple fact that just about every building was outlined or decked out in miles and miles and miles and _miles_ of neon tubing (I later found out it's all heavy-duty fiber optic cabling, but there are a few places than use the old-fashioned neon stuff) so that it looks just like the "futuristic cities" you see in the old 2-D sci-fi flicks from the late 20th and early 21st century (Should this piece get caught in a time warp and someone from the year 1999 should read this, I regret to inform you that cities in 2162 America just don't look like what you see in _Bladerunner_ or _The Fifth Element_ ; they look something like the Washington D.C. of a film called _Minority Report_ , which you'll have to wait till 2002 to see.) Another trivia bit about the City I would later pick up was that the city designers, chiefly an eccentric multi-billionaire named Tyler Aldron, who had a pet hobby for doing architectural drawings to decorate his mansion, deliberately intended Rouge to look like these cinematic cities, something about appealing to the sense of fantasy.

And what made me sigh? It wasn't a sigh of longing. Certainly not yet. I'd have to call it a sigh of pity. I walked somewhat quickly past the glass-front clubs, their windows displaying the hordes of figures—Orga, Mecha—gyrating and grinding to the techno-jazz that poured from the doors as patrons went in; the sultry figures, many female ones in tight gowns and sequined bodysuits, posing and posturing in other windows, inviting the passerby inside to sample whatever "Suspicious Delicacies" awaited their appetite, or discover what heavenly or hellish delights these "Angels and Demons" could provide. I watched patrons going into these clubs, but I didn't see many come out, though I stood there for a half an hour.

Don't think I went "holier-than-thou" if I say I pitied these people—men, women, young college types, retirees, businesspeople in between. I didn't look at them thinking, "Well, I'm not sinning and wasting my time, energy, money and salvation on _that_ commodity, therefore I'm better than they are." I'm of the camp that regards sexual intercourse with a Mecha as a grave sin, but that there are much worse sins than that. Much worse.

I wasn't sure who to pity more, the Orgas partaking of the Mechas, or the Mechas themselves, programmed and built specific for just one task, never knowing much beyond that, and enslaved to that most insatiable appetite: human lust. Some of the gaudy and slinky dressed figures that sashayed past me were just as beautiful as some Orga women, some so well-built I almost took them for Orga until they got up close to me. This only made my realization more poignant.

I spotted several male figures as well, most of them wide-shouldered, deep-chested bodybuilder types. I averted my gaze and kept a low profile around these, not out of prudery, but to stick to my guns. I prefer my men slender-built and graceful, the sensitive danseur types. There's a certain amount of machismo to my nature, so I need someone who'll offset it. A few of the muscle-boys tried to approach me, but I walked away, trying not to betray too much unease.

I kept to the main drag of town, figuring this was the safest way to find my way back to Main Plaza and the giant escalators back to the lower level.

I found a tamer place, the Club Renoir, described in the guidebook as an arts bar. For my sanity's sake I hoped that didn't include pornography, but I knew enough to look the other way or duck out if it got really bad.

Fortunately, it didn't, at least not that night. When I arrived, they were between acts for an open mike poetry slam, standing room only. I hung around in the back, watching from among what I discovered were Mechas.

I noticed one slender fellow from behind, leaning his wrist gracefully against one of the carved pillars supporting the ceiling. Even from the back, he caught my attention: a black-haired fellow with naturally (?) tanned skin, wearing a silver shirt cut in the Victorian style over high-waisted black trousers tastefully molded tight to his hips, but looser over his thighs.

I hung around long enough to get a feel for the place and hear the next poet's work, then I went out.

I'd reached the Ridge Garden, the walled park that encloses to upper level of the city, when I came to the terminus of Main Boulevard. It was almost 2400, so I decided to head back to my hotel room.

On my walk back, I spotted, wedged in between two clubs, something I didn't at first expect to see, but which I welcomed. It was a small storefront chapel, Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart. I say I didn't expect it at first because I know from experience that the All Mighty loves to ask His most trusted servants to pitch their tents in the least likely places, sometimes in downright wild places where the respectable folk wouldn't dare to go. Christ Jesus Himself chose to be born as a shivering, wet little baby in a cave full of drooling cows and scruffy sheep; one of His most faithful followers was a former prostitute. I've met more than a few less than virginal people who were much more generous and concerned for their suffering fellow humans than any number of the most demure little spinster virgins you find warming a pew every day (For the record, I go to Mass every Sunday and almost every weekday. I just don't pat myself on the back about it.).

I went in. Compared to the Dionysian excess out there, the inside was almost antiseptic but refreshing: white walls, white pews, white stone altar, pale blue carpeting. The blue neon lighting over the door looked almost out of place by contrast. I thought of Christ referring to the Pharisees as "whitened sepulchers" full of corruption and bones, but this looked like the utter reverse of His metaphor.

I said a quick good night prayer; I would have stayed longer, but it was getting late and I had to get out early.

Back in the hotel, I went to the bar for a quick nightcap—a mimosa with seltzer, no champagne. This gave me a few minutes to watch humanity in action and collect a few ideas. I overheard two different conversations going on: one woman alongside of me was talking on her cellphone, saying she was only passing through Rouge City on her way back, but she kept eying the room as if she was looking for something to walk in. Two guys in their 30s sat at the other end of the bar, one of them telling the other about how his sister-in-law was always on his back about his going to Rouge for a few days every so often, but then she'd turn around and gossip to her friends that her brother-in-law had been to Rouge City _again_ , oh, how awful! The other guy mentioned the word Pharisee in his reply, which made me think of Francois Mauriac's novel _A Woman of the Pharisees_.

And then it hit me in this all but God-forsaken place. A quote form Mauriac flashed through my mind: "A literature of edification falsifies life; to depict man in all his misery is to unmask the abyss opened, in the modern world, by the absence of God."

I decided then and there what I had to do with my fiction writing. I was to stay here write about life and love and lust and death of the soul and rebirth and sin and redeath and madness and re-rebirth…and Mechas, all those things the self-complacent, self-proclaimed saints dare not deign to look upon lest it ruffle their hair, but which the real saints, the ones who don't yet know they are saints, face all the time because they know it has become part of the human condition and who look upon these things with eyes of compassion. Yes, even Mechas, for they are more to be pitied than frowned upon because they know not what they do.

With these thoughts, I called for my bill and went upstairs to finish packing.

My mother wasn't keen on my moving to Rouge City even after I told her about the realization I came to in the bar, but she couldn't tell me what to do. I was twenty-two with a good paying job that allowed me to live anywhere.

I found a hotel in Rouge City that had residency apartments, the Hotel Graceley, on the Upper Deck, not far from the chapel, so I reserved a room. Then I loaded my worldly possessions into my cruiser and drove to my new home city. Either the plan would work, or it would fail. I could always pull out if it came to that.

Room 503 sat perched above most of the lower structures with a view of the street below and a casino across the way. Could be worse. I'd found from the City Chamber of Commerce that living on the Upper Deck was cheaper than living on the Lower Deck as far as services and taxes were concerned, for the simple reason that most of the Upper Deck population was Mecha.

Because I had a bunch of copy to write up and send out, I didn't get much time to poke around the City for the first few weeks after I settled there. A few of my more raucous friend sent me teasing, gently R-rated emails, which had me shaking my head over.

But I soon had a daily routine: up at 645, go to Mass, go for a walk, observe people, maybe mingle a little as I got a cup of herb tea at a kiosk, go home, have breakfast, get to work till 1300, have lunch, more writing (fiction work) until 1800, then take the evening off and do some serious eavesdropping on the streets. I made a few friends: a lame-legged fellow named Vautrin, who kept the records for an agency; a girl who tended the servers for the e-post; a young guy who worked as a mechanic on the Lower Deck, mostly fixing cruisers, but occasionally doing weld-jobs on Mechas; an older guy named Clive who was a plainclothes security guard. He thought my idea was crazy, but he didn't abuse it.

"It's yer idea with what to do with yer life, and what you do is none of my business unless you cross the line. Then it becomes my business," he said one morning.

"You won't have to worry about that," I said.

"Just to be sure, could you stand up straight and hold your arms out?" he asked in an official-sounding voice. I did as he told me. He ran a hand-held low-level x-ray over me.

"What's this for?" I asked, trying to sound amused.

"Just makin' sure you don't have any spy recorders on you, recording people's conversations," he replied. He switched off the wand and pocketed it.

"I don't do that, I just unobtrusively eavesdrop; most of the stuff people say is hopelessly worthless as fiction, but I pick up useful snippets here and there. Sometimes it's more the way a person says something that packs more wallop than the words themselves."

"Yer sorta like them that way." He pointed to a female Mecha passing by, a leggy thing in a turquoise babydoll.

"What do you mean?"

"Some of 'em are so smart they can hear what you mean when you say something else, y'know, like saying 'no' but your tone means 'yes'."

I chuckled. "I've had my talents compared to lots of other people, but that's the first time anyone has ever compared me to a Mecha."

He glanced at another Mecha sashaying past us, a slim creature in a leopard-print catsuit, then he eyed me. "Think if they built one of 'em smart enough, it could write as good as you?"

"I doubt it."

The fourth week of my new life, something happened that nearly gave me a reason to sigh in different way than the sigh of compassion I had heaved earlier.

It was late in the evening; I'd been to the public library on the lower deck, and I had stopped at the chapel to say goodnight to the All Mighty. When I emerged and stepped out onto the street, I sensed a presence off to my left, just a ripple on my awareness at first.

A shadow separated itself from the darkness between the buildings. I put my hand into my pocket and grasped the small stunner I keep there.

"You seem new to Rouge City or else I have not seen you before," said a gentle man's—or, rather, a gentleman's—voice, a soft, dulcet baritenor with a genteel British accent, not the stilted voice of a Jeevesian butler, but the lyrical voice of a Shakespearean actor.

The shadow approached me and resolved itself into a tall, slender young man perhaps in his late twenties.

"Did you speak to me?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," he replied.

"Who are you?"

"They call me Joe, and who, may I ask, have I the honor of meeting?"

"I'm Cecie Martin." I put out my hand, expecting the usual half-mechanical handshake. But he took my hand, turned it over and raised it to his lips to kiss it. That took me completely off guard: I've seen that done only in 2-D films, but you find all types of people in cities.

"So, have you need of assistance finding your way about the City?"

"Not really, but I'd appreciate the company."

"In which case, where, may I ask, are you going?"

"I'm staying at the Hotel Graceley."

"Ah yes! I know where that is." With a smooth movement, he proffered me his arm. I smiled as I took it: nobody's been that gracious to me before.

We swung off down the boulevard; I generally walk fast, but his strides matched mine exactly. He seemed much taller than he was, but that was a trick of the eye resulting from his sensuous leanness and his cocky, long-stepping swagger.

"So how long have you been in Rouge City?" he asked.

"I've been here only three weeks."

"So long? Are you, as they say, making a habit of this place?" He asked this with gently teasing lilt, strangely free from innuendo.

"You might put it that way," I replied. "You see, I'm a writer; I copy write for a living, but I have the time and the resources to write fiction on the side."

"You write fiction. Have you published any books? Perhaps I could locate one of them."

"I've mostly written short stories, but I should probably anthologize some of them, put them together in a collection. I've published most of them in online magazines."

"And which of these online magazines have been affable enough to present to the public your doubtlessly well-crafted work?"

He was certainly adept at laying on the flattery, but it didn't bother me. "Let's see, 'Lucent Literature' was one of them, so was 'Wordviews' and 'Verbal Portraits'."

"I don't wish to sound as one trying to pry, but how then does your writing relate to your coming to Rouge City?"

"That's a good question. I specialize in moral writing, and I found, when I came here for just a night last month, that I could find a lot of ideas for future stories: characters, problems, happenings that I could use for plot elements, what not."

He was suddenly quiet for a long moment, though we kept walking. Then at length he spoke: "You will surely find many of these ideas here. More humans come in and out of this city than there are drops of water flowing in the Delaware. And so many things happen that you would find enough plots to fill a library with your work."

I was blushing. "You're too kind."

We turned the corner onto Avenue J and passed a pawnshop and a bar before we reached the Hotel Graceley, a classic Aret Deco building in simulchromed steel and concrete.

I paused before the building and released his arm. He turned and faced me.

"I hope I didn't take too much of your time," I ventured.

He cocked his head. "My time is at your complete disposal."

In the clear titanium-white lighting from the marquee, I looked into his face and realized what he meant.

The light glinted too brilliantly off his skin, not the gleam of skin oil or sweat, though it was a warm spring night, but a synthetic sheen. His jet-black hair lay slicked well back from his patricianly high brow so that it looked all of a piece, like black simuleather. But his eyes fully gave away what he was. At first glance, I read a vague, gently sad or lonely look into them, then their green hue and their sparkle made me think of wine bottle glass or green gemstones—jade, beryl or smoked emeralds—but then I realized the brilliance was the brilliance of plastic and the vague look was an impassible look.

 _Mecha._

His posture, his swagger, the way he cocked his trimly narrow hips forward in genteel enticement all suggested one thing: at best an escort, at worst a man-whore, midway between the two a gigolo.

I stepped back from him, more from surprise than from fear. "You're Mecha," I managed to say, trying not to blurt it.

"Does that disturb you? Your face looks disturbed."

"No, it's just I've never been that close to something like you, I mean, I've been around Mechas before, but never a…not a…"

"Not a lover-Mecha," he completed the sentence for me."

"Uh, no." There had been a few clunky old service droids that lumbered about my hometown of Westhillston, the metal-bodied variety that barely looked human except that some designer had, almost like an afterthought, stuck a mask of a human face on the top, trying to make it look more human and only making the thing look more alien.

He took a step closer. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said, his voice softer, more seductive than before. "You need only fear your own fears."

"I'm not afraid. I'm just a little tired, that's all. I've had a long day, so if you'll excuse me, I'd better go inside."

"As you wish," he replied in his normal voice. He reached into the breast pocket of his simuleather coat and drew out a card case. "And if ever you should desire my presence or my services, here then is the number for my pager." He held out the card to me between two fingers. I took it just to be polite; that's when I noticed the pager on a sturdy silver chain about his neck, hanging to his slender waist; the pager itself was a thick metal disk a little larger around than my pendant watch, with a black display.

I was trying to think of a quick, gracious exit when the problem resolved itself. A high-pitched, electronic trill twittered form his pager. White script scrolled across the display. He glanced down and took it in hand like a 19th century gentleman consulting his pocket watch in a 2-D period flick. He looked up at me with an ironic smile.

"If only you had changed your mind a little more timely. I'm afraid duty calls me elsewhere. Thus the cost of hesitation."  
 _The little narcissist,_ I thought. "Well, uh, thanks. Thank you for walking with me." I had to reward him for his effort, even if he was a machine. I held out my hand to him palm down.

He took it graciously. "You are welcome, Cecie." He leaned over my hand and kissed, lingering just a little.

I disengaged myself, stuttered some sort of goodbye and went inside. I walked through the lobby a little too quickly and went up to my room.

Once there, I scolded myself for my own ineptness. He was just too real. Imagine a combination of the graceful, elegant Fred Astaire with the likable, swarthily good-looking Gene Kelly from the 1940s 2-Ds and add to that the smoldering sultriness of Rudolf Valentino from the silent 2-Ds of the 1920s.

But I couldn't deny the thoughts that crossed my mind: _I wonder when I'll see this Joe again_ and _I hope I wasn't too brusque to him_. I'd wanted to put him off on one level, but not on a level of mere affability.

 **Afterword:**

One quick note before I decode the more obscure references: this is set about maybe eight, ten years pre-film. Joe is still fairly new to the scene, so if he seems a little off character, it's because some of his circuits haven't finished "burning in". I intended this series to show some of his development as an individual: he's a little clueless about some of the finer quirks of human behavior (so aren't we all!). Besides my hopeless infatuation with the character, there is another reason why I love writing Joe fictions: his dialogue lines are a wonderful challenge to write because his speech patterns are so different than everyone else's. As time allows, there will be much more to come.

Literary Easter Eggs:

"Should this piece get caught in a time warp…"—This is a stacked-up reference/metafiction (a fiction about fiction), coupled with a very gentle parody. I chose the year 1999 to slyly dig the sci-fi writers and directors who put precise dates on their creations and ended up with their story self-obsolescing: i.e. Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke and "2001: a Space Odyssey". At least Steve had the good sense NOT to put a date on "A.I.", but his writers muffed by putting the date 2054 on _Minority Report_.

Tyler Aldron—Something of a cinematic crossover from _Bladerunner_. The name is a transposed phonetic replica of the name of Eldon Tyrell, the trillionnaire founder/CEO of the Tyrell Corporation, which designs and builds replicants, semi-biological androids, the distant cousins of the Mechas.

"A shivering, wet little baby…"—I shamelessly swiped this from Peter Kreeft, one of my favorite spiritual writers (favorite because his books are so engaging…and because he frequently references science fiction stories!).

"a mimosa with seltzer"—I make these all the time: you mix equal amounts of orange juice and seltzer; I personally recommend Clear Choice lime-flavored seltzer, since it adds an extra citrus kick to the mix.


	2. First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversation 2: "Hey, Joe, Whaddya Know?"

Dedicated to Greenwich Village and its people: the "Bladerunner" neon lighting is all up in Times Square, and there aren't any sex Mechas, but this is the closest to Rouge City I've had the chance to visit and, like Cecie in the last chapter, I may move down there to find a steady source of inspiration.

Rouge doesn't cover much space (I can't say "ground" since the Upper Deck perches atop massive steel-reinforced concrete pilings); I can walk the perimeter in about five hours, and I average about three miles an hour walking. It's deliberately too easy a town to walk around in: the main streets form concentric circles around Main Plaza, itself a complex of small squares and parks. Cross-boulevards radiate from Main Plaza to the Ridge Garden, the walled park that rings the City. No vehicle traffic is allowed on the streets which are purposely narrow to maximize the amount of space, and therefore the number of buildings jammed together, which makes the city seem bigger than it really is.

After a couple months of living here, after holing myself up in my room to finish a huge load of copy for winter travel brochures, I let myself take a vacation: a walking tour by day around the perimeter of the Upper Deck. I didn't dare walk that far or that long at night, merely because it was unfamiliar ground and I didn't want to get lost in the dark. I didn't want to have to ask the wrong being for directions. I say "wrong" only because I found out the hard way that not every Mecha in Rouge City is harmless. Two weeks before, I'd had a minor tussle with a hustler Mecha who didn't seem programmed to know the meaning of the word "NO!"; and just two days before I made my trip, I got chased by some especially witchy female Mechas who thought I was trying to invade their territory.

In the past month, I'd glimpsed the green-eyed gentleman (gentlemecha?) called Joe more than a few times, but I'd carefully avoided him, along with everyone else. It's as lonely as it sounds, but sometimes I have to do this in order to conquer the Everest of work piled on my table.

The day I went out, the weather reports made no mention of rain, though May is notorious for daily downpours to water those spring flowers and trees and grass. But I foolishly left my umbrella behind in the hotel room, and my trench coat hung peacefully on its hook in my closet. If I'd done the right thing, I'd have easily circumnavigated the Upper Deck and walked home swinging my unused umbrella.

But, well into my journey, dark clouds rolled in from the west, across the river. I did my best to ignore the violet black masses condensing over the sun, but they oozed relentlessly across the last strip of the sky. Lightning bolts sparked from the bases of the clouds, to the horizon. Thunder rolled through my ears, seeming to come from every quarter. But I kept on walking along the wall, looking down into the darkening river below.

A bolt of lightning cracked across the river and struck the brow of one of the huge women's heads that mark the gateways into the city I stood about a mile away, but the crackling thunder jolted me into realization. Drops of water started to dampen my hat and spat on my glasses. I turned and dashed for a simulstone pavilion that stood not far away.

The storm broke over me as I made it to the shelter and stepped into the shadows.

A bolt of lightning outside lit up the inside of the pavilion. Someone else had taken shelter there, a tall, slim figure in black. The glare flashed off his fluorescent eyes, making them glow for an instant.

"Well, what do you know," I said. "Hey, Joe."

He turned to look straight at me. "Are you fashioning rhymes by intent or by rhapsody?" he asked.

"It wasn't intentional," I said. "Did you like it?"

"It rings with the most euphony I have heard in some time."

We weathered the storm together; he tried to make conversation, but my tongue got itself in a knot of nerves. I'm usually not like this, but around him my speech parameters got messed up. This was not the stereotypic single girl getting school girlish around a handsome fellow. He apparently took this as a sign I wished to be left alone and he stopped all attempts at chatting.

As soon as the rain let up, I excused myself from his presence and hurried out between the last raindrops.

The next day, I consulted my friend Vautrin about this Mecha named Joe.

"Unless you're Mechaphobic, you got nothing to fear from Joe. He was designed as a replica of some artist or dancer, I don't remember which, though I've read his profile. Inception date was February 14, 2161, which puts him at age 28 minus 27 years old. He's a real sweetheart, gentle as a dove, a little vain, but that's how they made 'um."

"Vanity in a man isn't a bad thing in moderation," I said, looking over the top of my shades and letting my gaze take in Vautrin's battered leather cap, unshaven jaw, grimy shirt and frayed corduroys.

"Ennnhhh, not quite moderate in Joe, sometimes."

"I can overlook it, or accept him as he is."

A few mornings later, after Mass, as I headed for the kiosk where I always bought my morning cup of green tea, I spotted a tall, dark figure in black strutting toward my general direction, his eyes scanning the passersby for potential customers. If he had seen me, his eyes didn't register that he had: he didn't turn his head my way.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" I asked, almost on impulse.

He paused to pivot on his toes and swagger up to me.

"If you said that to polish your epigram, you have succeeded excellently," he said. "And if you further calculated to catch my attention, you have succeeded again."

"Well, I wanted to catch your attention, because I have something important to say to you."  
He tucked his chin and cocked his head toward me. "Oh?"

"Yes, I just wanted to apologize for being so unfriendly yesterday when I met you in the shelter.

He shrugged one shoulder, a simple, slow gesture. "You did neither of us any harm."

"I didn't mean to put you off."

"That makes no difference: I have been put off before. It rests with your decision whether you choose to associate with me or not; I can only stay within the lines you draw. I have had women get nervous around me, but I assure you, most of them soon forgot to be nervous."

"I think if I got to know you better, I might forget to be nervous myself. So, in that case, I guess I've decided to associate with you."

He smiled. "In that case, may my company always bring you pleasure."

I decided to appeal a little to his vanity. "Well, looking at you already brings me a lot of pleasure."

"How much does it bring to you?"

I wagged my head. "Enough that if I had conjunctivitis in both eyes, and I looked at you, the conjunctivitis would be healed."

He beamed. I thought I saw a gleam of pleasure in his eyes, but it was probably only the morning sun glinting off their synthetic surfaces.

"But if you should desire more than mere looking at me, I am at fair disposal any time, day or night, that I am not otherwise engaged."

"Well, that won't be necessary. Once I get to know you, the pleasures of you company will be plenty for me."

A woman passed by where we stood. His gaze started to track after her, but I moved into his sight range. He looked straight at me. "Why then does each human respond so differently to my kind?"

"Well, for one thing, every human has a different personality, which inclines each one to respond differently to the same sort of situation. But every human has had different experiences, which also affects their response. Two people can have similar personality types, yet they will respond differently because they have different memories to fall back on, or because their drives are weaker or stronger through different conditioning."

"You mean something, but I cannot quite fathom what you mean."

I took the first situation I could think of quickly. "All right, well, someone like me who has had no contact with your kind would be a little fearful at first, but since I've had no prejudices based on experience, for better or for worse, I would be curious about you because you're new to me. But someone who's known your type all their life and had indifferent experiences would think, 'Oh, it's one of them. Seen one, seen 'em all.' And someone who's had a few experiences that were good might think, 'Ooh, one of them! Let me see what he's got.'"

He smiled at this. "I hope I could oblige them well."

He was getting what I meant. "One last example for that case: Someone who's had some experiences that were bad might think, 'Oh no, not one of THOSE!'"

"In which case I would try to alleviate their fears." He paused for a moment, probably processing the data I had given him. "You have a far superior knowledge of human behavior than many people I have met."

"I hope so, as a person and as a writer. If ever something, some little quirk of human behavior, gets wrapped around your processors, don't hesitate to ask me. I can explain most stuff."

"In which case I could learn much from you."

My turn in line had come; I expected him to have gone on his way in the meantime, but I turned back to find him waiting for me.

"Perhaps then, as my first question about the little quirks of human behavior, I should, if I may act so boldly, ask you if why you seem less than comfortable around my kind, specifically around me?"

It really was none of his business, but he asked the question so innocently, utterly free from guile or impertinence that my refusing to answer be impertinence on my part.

"Well, I'm from Massachusetts, up north, and there aren't very many lover-Mechas up there, so I'm not familiar with your type, which puts me a little on edge just because you're an unfamiliar creature. And for another thing, I don't want to start something I couldn't finish."

He processed that for a moment, trying to come up with an appropriate response. "Why would you not want to finish it?"

"I hope to marry some day, and I want my husband to be my first lover."

He narrowed his eyes and turned his face slightly away. "So you are politely informing me that you have no use for my functions. Very well, I know enough not to linger where my presence is not needed." He started to turn away.

"Wait, Joe. Just because I don't intend to use what you've got doesn't mean I don't want to associate with you. I'd like to get to know you as a person, I mean…" "Person" didn't seem like the proper term for him. "I think I could learn a lot from you, too."

That got his attention. "I? What manner of things could I teach you?"

"You could keep me informed of whatever rumors are circulating on the street, or what sort of intrigues and escapades someone has had."

"And this would help you?" His brows gathered slightly.

"It would give me some ideas and inspirations."

"And so it would aid your writing."

"I'd even give you credit where credit is due."

He smiled broadly at this; I swore he beamed that time: nothing like a good appeal to his vanity.

A well-dressed woman walked by us. She casually pulled a lace handkerchief from her blouse, pretended to dab her eye with it, then lowered her hand and accidentally on purpose dropped it. Her eye rested on Joe the whole time.

He looked at me; the smile had changed to a politely suggestive grin. "Excuse my cutting too short our conversation, but I believe here is an intrigue waiting to happen." With that he approached the spot where the handkerchief lay, stooped gracefully and picked it up to offer it to the woman.

Afterword:

There's more where that came from: a chainsaw massacre, an intrigue involving a Lolita type, another rainstorm, and more about men, women, and Mechas.

Literary Easter Eggs:

The unexpected rainstorm: One gray day, when I was going out to the library to upload a bunch of files onto ff.n, I neglected to bring along an umbrella since the weather report made no mention of rainstorms. Later, at the library, as I finished my work, I heard what sounded like a herd of cattle on the roof: I looked out the window to see rain pouring down, and I had to run to catch a bus in fifteen minutes. Also, the same thing happened to me the night my dad and I recently spent in Greenwich Village: every time we went out to go for a walk a light drizzle started to fall.

Drop the handkerchief: An ancient flirtation custom: does anybody besides me try that stunt any more?


	3. Rouge City Chainsaw Massacree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's note:

Hoo! I've left this one on the back burner way too long, but despite a heat wave and a heat rash on my upper back that started to feel like leprosy, I managed to get another installment written. I gladly dedicate this chapter to L- C-, my mother's bible thumper pen friend (I'd like to know how the bloody ranters find her!), who seems to take an especial delight in what I call "reverse pornography", instead of feeling sensual titillation, she prides herself on how she isn't this horrible sinner. How do I know this? She wrote my mother a lengthy letter about how she was down in Rio de Janeiro at Mardi Gras and how she saw all kinds of weird R-rated stuff going on. This is my take on someone like L- C- in Rouge City, which I've described to my mother as "jet-propelled Mardi Gras 24/7/365, complete with robots optimized to oblige." The idea for this came to me after reading Delia Soul's "Sweet Home, Rouge City", but I was also thinking about Halloween…you'll see what I mean.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own any Bible Churches (Although I belong to the Church that codified the Christian Bible), and I don't intend this to bash Bible Christians, just the hypocrites that don't practice what they preach or who sneer at the sinners instead of having compassion for them.

Chapter III

The Rouge City Chainsaw Massacree

All sorts of people pour into and out of the City every day, mostly the businessmen and women come for a fling, often taking a discreet detour after some business trip, frequently the leisure class types. In the summer, right after the colleges let out for the season, you see a lot of college kids haunting the Lower Deck, where the cheap older models abound. Most of the people who live here are normal folks, many working in the tourist industry or something fairly normal. One of the most normal guys I ever met lives below on the Lower Deck, working as a mechanic. You rarely see the procurers who, I'm told, dwell in the towers high above the city.

Since the City shuns moral cleanliness, it tries to maintain an image of physical cleanliness; every morning you see the work crews of service droids out and about, sweeping up the refuse from the night before and the security guards clearing out the derelict Orgas. The City has a darker side to it, the homeless, the derelicts, the broken who lost their shirts playing the stock market, or more often the roulette tables. I've seen gaunt, hollow-eyed men clad in the tattered remains of shantung suits crouched in the shadows of the concrete pilings that support the Upper Deck. I've bought meals for a few of them and listened to their stories; I've directed them to the shelter run by the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter, though I lost sight of them after that.

But amongst all the sinners that pour into the city like liquor down a bum's throat, you see, by contrast, another breed entirely that you hardly expect to see in a place like this.

You see them on the street corners holding up poster board signs whose messages range from the charitable (John 3:16 "For God so loved the world…") to the vociferous ("Purge yourself of sin and sim!") to the epistemological ("The END is NEAR!") to the downright pushy ("Do you know if you are saved?"). You often see street preachers on milk crates, Bibles in hand, bellowing about the flames of hell and damnation awaiting those who indulge in the pleasures afforded by "the inventions of Satan" around them. It's all I can do to keep from laughing sometimes, when you see one of these religious nuts in the middle of a moving crowd, up to his neck in passing Mechas. There's one short, dark guy—I think his name is Jake—who wears badly fitting suits (pants too big, jacket too small), who likes to get into weird discussions with these types, especially one I'll call Brother Carl. What's even funnier to see is how Brother Carl gets himself all red-faced defending his self-righteous position, while Jake, cigarette between his fingers and fedora tilted over one ear, shoots down his empty reasons with the cadenced tone of an actor and a saturninely oily manner worthy of a high-priced man-whore.

I remember one occasion when Jake wasn't around when my ears got scalded overhearing Brother Carl's leather lunging while I stood in line waiting for my morning tea. Just to give you an idea (emphasis NOT added):

"MY BROTHERS AN' SISTERS! If ANY of you so much as GAZE upon these devices of the devil, you shall feel the very soul WITHER within you as the flames, I say the FLAMES of lust ignite within you. your eyes shall be blighted and your flesh shall shrivel. These creatures cannot transmit to you the sickness caused by fornication, but they shall still infect you! Infect you with the disease of desire, desire for their imitation flesh, their fake caresses, their phony embraces."

Most of the people who stopped to listen treated him as if he were any other street performer, like the girl folk singer who improvises ditties to her six-string guitar, or the guy who rides a unicycle and plays the didgeridoo. They tossed coins at his feet and went on their way, often following one of the very "devices of the devil".

Far more interesting were the reactions of the passing Mechas. They paused to listen, some of the females eyeing him as if he might be a potential customer, if only he would stop jabbering. One, a small dark female in a black lacy dress open over her legs, actually hung about behind him, looking at him with a kittenish face. But their seductive glances soon turned into gentle confusion and mild blankness before they went away, looking for less vociferous potentials.

I thought I saw Joe on the fringe of the crowd once. He gazed on the spectacle with slightly blank bemusement, before a woman with a decidedly bored look ignored Brother Carl's hollering and turned away. That caught Joe's attention and he moved in for the chase.

I doubt the Bible thumpers attracted many followers on the Upper Deck; I suspected they may have made more headway in the Lower Deck, but even they might lose interest after a while.

One another occasion, I discreetly looked to see if Brother Carl wore a wedding ring: I couldn't help wondering if he had ever felt "the flames of desire" or if the guy was frigid. Or if he was a slightly over-sexed type married to a frigid woman. He wore no ring, but that didn't mean anything; some of these Bible-thumper types don't wear them (What I want to know is how do they fend off pushy single people of the complementary sex).

Not long after this, one night I saw Brother Carl, wearing dark glasses and a slouch hat as he stepped through the doors of one of the seedier nightspots. A few nights later, as I brushed my teeth, I swore I heard his voice in the room that abuts my bathroom. The R-rated racket he generated (words included) got so loud I pounded on the wall to let him know he could be heard. I doubt they heard me: it gradually got worse.

He either has a split personality or a guilt complex. I don't know how else to explain it, even to myself and I'm a student of human behavior. I caught myself actually hoping Joe wouldn't ask me to explain this psychological conundrum, should he happen to fall in with some overreligious type.

But eventually I heard it from him. I found him one afternoon, sitting in the cul-de-sac at the end of my floor's hallway, his knee joint unsealed, tending to a little self-maintenance between customers.

"Here, you can do that in my room, be a little more discreet about it," I offered. Even as I said this, I could hear snatches of Brother Carl's sermon clanging in my head.

"That I would appreciate," Joe said. He resealed the joint and rolled down his trouser leg. He stood up and followed me to my apartment.

"Do you know of the strange babblings of the man who calls himself Brother Carl?" he asked, glancing up from his work.

"I'm afraid I have," I admitted, sitting on the window seat. I had offered it to him so he would have light to work in, but he chose to sit on the floor by my feet.

He looked up at me with something I guessed was compassion. "Pity your poor ears. Lucky for you that you have found someone with a far more gentle voice, someone like me."

"I guess his rantings haven't bothered you."

He processed this. "They have not disturbed me, and yet they have disturbed some of my customers. And yet this affords me an opportunity to relieve them of their distress."

"I bet you've been wondering why this Brother Carl despises your kind."

"What I wish to know is why someone who speaks so unkindly of Mechas by day makes use of them by night."

"It's called having a double standard of morality. He says one thing and does another. He tells his listeners to avoid lover Mechas and yet he lets himself indulge in the very thing he preached against."

"Why then does he do this?"

I had to put it in terms he would understand. "He thinks you Mechas are evil, so he thinks he's protecting his listeners from you by telling them to avoid you."

His high smooth brow pinched. "If he thinks we are evil, why then does he engage and delight in what we have to offer?"

"He's just a very weak human, and he's angry with himself for being weak. So he takes out his anger on the very creations he accuses of leading others—including himself—astray."

"He should know that we Mechas are built specific for this human need, that we must stay within the boundaries potential customers make. We cannot force ourselves on you. If he sees us as evil, he should then avoid us."

"Sometimes when humans try to avoid something, they try too hard and then they end up putting themselves right in the way of the thing they're trying to avoid."

"Why then do you humans do this?"

"It's a mystery I've been trying to solve myself."

He took this with quiet acceptance: if even an Orga couldn't process it, there was little sense in letting his processors waste energy crunching this data. He finished his repairs and resealed his joint.

He leaned close to me and put his hand on my wrist. "But what of you? What am I to you: an angel or a demon?"

I had to smile gently at the innocent earnestness in his tone. "If you have to put it that way, you're more of an angel to me. I don't think it's right to use you for sex, but I enjoy having you as a friend."

That clearly satisfied his query: he smiled broadly, innocently, yet not without a gently suggestive gleam in his eye.

Some people didn't ignore Brother Carl's message. Somehow he scraped together enough money to rent a storefront downstairs, which he converted into a chapel, "The Church of the Virgins", a really odd name when you know what I know.

He got a few followers, as I heard from Clive and Kip and Vautrin. "The bugger thinks he can put us out of business. He forgot it's called the oldest profession. Whores came before preachers were invented!" Vautrin declared to me, unfazed.

Later still on a street corner one night, I heard from Joe that a couple of his most frequent customers had joined "the Church of the Virgins".

"Why then does he call his establishment Church of the Virgins when so few virgins frequent this city?" he asked me

"And," he quickly added, "When many come to cease being virginal?"

"He probably thinks he can find a lot of followers and spread his message as quickly as he can," I replied.

This didn't sit well in Joe's perfectly logical brain. "I do not understand. He is no virgin himself."

"He's a hypocrite; most people who are hypocrites are liars. They don't want to admit to themselves that they're just as weak as the next guy, and they don't want other people to find out that they are because it means they'll have to start being honest with themselves."

"I have not seen you engage any of us Mechas or our services, let alone mine, though you have had much more than ample opportunity. You must be stronger than they are."

"Really, I'm not. I just know how to handle it a lot better, without making life hell for everyone around me." I couldn't tell him outright. His pursuit centers might have misconstrued it: much as I liked him, and as good-looking and charming as he is, I didn't want to start anything I'd have a hard time stopping.

About the middle of October, when the summer hype finally starts to slacken, a follower of Brother Carl took over preaching upstairs, while, it seemed, Brother Carl took over the Lower Deck. A short, perpetually unkempt, middle-aged woman with a wild mop of red hair took over his milk crate over on the corner of Concubine Street and Main Boulevard.

"God built the universe to be a temple, a temple He gave to the virgins to tend. But now His temple has been defiled by these evil machines, these depraved creations, these robots of doom! Truly they are the abomination of desolation spoken of by Daniel in the thirty-fist verse of his second chapter!"

She sounded weirdly like a Flesh Fair barker (I've never actually attended one of these horrible spectacles, but I saw a very graphic video documentary on Kevin Lord Johnson-Johnson, the mastermind behind this obscene phenomenon). Her words fell on deaf ears. I've noticed that you can often tell when a speaker's statement contains the most hot air: they turn up the volume. I suppose some of the street preachers get loud just to make themselves heard over the loud music thundering form the open doors of the clubs. But they run the risk of damaging a gift God has given to them: their voice boxes. Sometimes I think their common sense has decayed for whatever reason and their piety and misguided zeal has taken its place. And the Devil loves to use these people as a way to make the genuinely religious people look bad in the eyes of everyone else. You've heard of the squeaky wheel that gets the most oil? The religious nut cases are one very loud wheel. Something about her eyes suggested to me she might be mentally unbalanced; the eyes tell a lot about a person (like if they're flesh and blood or silicon and fiber optics).

A week before Halloween, things came to a head one evening. Sister Chiffon (not her real name, but I called her that behind her back in honor of "the Johnson's" daughter Chiffon, who works for her dad as a barker/cheerleader/crowd stir-upper) set up shop in her usual spot; but this time, instead of a Bible, she brought along a large, lumpy bundle covered in canvas that bulged with metallic edges.

"My brothers and sisters of flesh and blood!" she yelled to the passersby. "You have not heeded the words of the Lord flowing from my mouth. It's been said elsewhere than in the Book of the Lord that actions speak louder than words. And so the Spirit of god has moved me to take action. He has told me to show you that these Mechas are hollow shells, that you may see and believe the word of the Lord. You Mechas, prepare to return to the devil that made you!"

She yanked the cover off the bundle. She held a chainsaw in her hands.

She pulled the cord. The motor sputtered and the saw buzzed into action. She lunged into the crowd.

Several people fled, gasping in fright and shouting. The Mechas that passed by stopped, staring at her blankly, trying to process this. She sliced the head off one; sparks flew up from the misfiring circuits. She sawed the arm off another that tried to step out of the way. A third, the petite Mecha in the lacy black dress, she swiped in half at the waist.

She came at me. I let out a roar and made as if I might lunge at her—something no Mecha would ever do. She backed down. A tall, dark-skinned female in a tiger-skin print bikini had started in our direction, but Sister Chiffon turned on it. The Mecha fled the way it came, with Sister Chiffon at her heels.

The crowd, the passersby scattered. Orgas—men and women—screamed and shouted wildly, rushing in all directions away from the madwoman. They fell over each other in their haste. They ducked into doorways and under café tables. The Mecha fled more deliberately, yet not less urgently thought with more restraint, the flight of the deer before the hunter's gun. They didn't even cry out: the only cries came from the ones the blade bit into. Their screams came louder even than the cries of the frightened humans. Electric cries arose, the whine of metal biting into metal, the dull thud of a body hitting the polymer pavement; and over this rose Sister Chiffon's chanting battle cry: "A saw for the Lord and humanity!"

I ran into the depths of the crowd. I tripped over something on the ground: I looked down at the torn body of a blond male Mecha, probably of the same class as Joe. She'd cut him in half just below the arms, so that the lower half of the body lay some ten feet away, as if it had kept running until a locomotion actuator misfired. I got up, my eyes scanning for Joe.

I saw him coming out of a hotel, casually straightening his coattails. He paused, struck a jaunty pose and scanned the streets for a moment. He broke out of the pose and coked his head at a "What's going on?" angle.

I glanced behind me. The crowd had thinned, but it still milled about. The chainsaw roared and Sister Chiffon still screeched in the near distance, but I had lost sight of her. The cold night wind off the river now stank of ozone, hot metal shavings and lubricants. Sounds like police radios crackled, drawing closer.

I turned back to him. "Joe?"

He looked toward me. "You called for me, Cecie?"

"Get the heck out of here! There's a madwoman on the loose and she has a saw. She's cutting down Mechas!"

He stepped back, watching the streets, his eyes tracking the shadows. His lithe body gathered like an alert cat's.

Next instant he turned and fled down a side street. I ran after him trying to keep up, anything to keep the madwoman away from him.

He rushed into an alleyway. I pelted after him.

He stepped out of the light, into a shadowy doorway. I stepped in next to him; my hand found his and gripped it.

"Are you in one piece?" I asked, breathing hard.

"I am. I stayed out of her path as far as it could be predicted, based upon the direction of the sound."

The saw buzzed by. I drew him to me protectingly even as I clung to him. He glanced at me as if he would move in closer, but only if I gave him the right sign.

"It's not that kind of touch; there's no place for it." I'm not sure who I said that to, him or my desires.

The chainsaw returned. I peered out of our hiding place so as not to be seen. Sister Chiffon stood at the end of the alleyway.

"Speak, in the name of the Lord! Is anyone there?" she cried, her voice raspy.

I shrank back into the doorway. Joe held me this time, half protectingly, half for protection, as if I'd earned some new level of trust.

At that instant, the medallion pager around his neck trilled; the display lit up, scrolling the name and location of a client calling in. I tried to muffle it with my hat.

"The voice of the demon speaks!" she cried, lunging forward. "Come out into the light, demons!"

Shouts behind her rent the night. Voices of authority launched orders.

"Put down the chainsaw and put up your hands!"

Sister Chiffon turned around to face the security guards that blocked the alleyway. "You would halt the work of the Lord!" she yelled back.

"I don't want to have to do this the hard way, lady. So be a good obedient servant of the Lord and put down the chainsaw," the guard ordered. I recognized Clive's voice.

"No! You would have me serve Satan!" she scraped.

"All right, you asked for it." A shot rang out. Something pinged off the chainsaw. The pungent smell of fuel reeked into the air as the gas tank sprung a leak. Sister Chiffon let out some not so holy words as the motor started to sputter and conk out.

"You have aborted the work of God!" she cried.

"I didn't know God was into property damage," said another, younger-voiced guard.

"Looks like God wants you to call it a night," Clive said, approaching Sister Chiffon. She threw down the dying chainsaw and put up her fuel-spattered hands. I thought I saw other stains on her clothes, reddish stains. I didn't want to think about that…

Clive tied her hands behind her back with some orange plastic tie. She tried to kick him in the shins; one of his partners grabbed her ankles and bound them with the same sort of tie.

"Fool! Blasphemer! You dare to mock the work of God!" she cried.

"'You have the right to remain silent', which I strongly advise you to keep," Clive said, trundling her away. "'You have the right to an attorney; if you do not have an attorney, one will be provided. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law'."

A third guard photographed the site; a fourth picked up the saw with a cloth in his hand.

"Is anyone here? Is anyone hurt?" Clive's younger partner asked.

I stepped out of the shadows, pulling on Joe's hand. "Come on, it's okay; she can't hurt us now," I said, reassuring him.

"Are both of you all right? Is there anyone else?"

"No," I said, speaking for the both of us. "We're both okay."

"She drew me out of the path of the fury," Joe said.

"Consider yourself lucky, Joe. Your lady-friend here just saved your brain," the young guard said.

The story made headlines all over the country. One writer—who will remain nameless out of modesty—dubbed the incident "the Rouge City Chainsaw Massacree" (Last syllable rhymes with "tree", not "purr", I insisted). It didn't really deserve the label "massacre", since non-living things were the target. She reparably damaged about thirty-three Mechas, totaled another forty-two, and destroyed fifty-seven. She also seriously injured twenty people. One person, a man in his fifties, died from blood loss. She insisted she'd been acting under divine inspiration. Since Rouge City lacks a judicial system, she was extradited to her home state of Idaho. Last I heard she had been diagnosed with psychosis and had been placed in an institution for the criminally insane.

Brother Carl confessed to encouraging Sister Chiffon to "take up the sword" and use it against the "abomination of desolation"; but he had no remorse at all for the fact that people—flesh and blood humans—got hurt, and even killed. He even said something to the effect that these people were asking to get hurt someday, although he tried to hide behind the "wrath" of God. He was forced to disband the Church of the Virgins—it fell apart anyway; all twenty members abandoned it. Someone opened a lingerie shop in the same storefront a couple weeks later. Such is Rouge City. After posting bail in New Jersey, Brother Carl dropped out of sight. No one knows where he went, but he's probably thumping the Bible by day and tousing Mechas by night in some other town, under another name.

But this story has an odd epilogue: As part of Rouge City's often bizarrely brutal sense of humor, some wag started silk-screening and selling tee-shirts reading "I Survived the Rouge City Chainsaw Massacree". I didn't take out a copyright on the moniker, so the wag is welcome to it. I happen to have one of the tamer versions of it: the more extreme versions featured your choice of simulated blood dripping down the back, or something a design that looks like torn silicon dermis exposing metal components and fibers. Of course I've avoided these versions: the first because it's offensive to humans, and the second because it would offend Joe. At the worst, he'd go into a pouting say-nothing mode, or at the least he'd inform me that it is in extremely poor taste.

(More to come…)

Afterword:

I don't know when I'll get the next installment of this mini-anthology of sorts posted, but there are a lot more sketches to come, so keep an eye on this one (And the other three I'm juggling!).

Literary Easter Egg:

"Massacree"—That is not a misprint; I repeat: that is not a misprint. I borrowed this word from Arlo Guthrie's famous half-hour long ballad/monologue "The Alice's Restaurant Massacree", in which the singer describes his true misadventures with small town justice in Stockbridge, MA.

Brother Carl—I based this character somewhat on my friend Mark's character "Johnny Preacher" (a character he does when he isn't impersonating Joe); we actually staged a mock confrontation between Johnny Preacher and my character Jake Jacobi, who briefly appears as "Jake".


	4. Rainy Day in Rouge City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

'Tis the season for digging up half-forgotten fics…I was digging around in the black binder where I keep my WIPs (works in progress) when I ran across this little sketch of Cecie and Joe (Obviously this is pre-"Runnin' Loose", pre-"One of THOSE…!" and decidedly pre-"Shadows…"). And since it was a rainy November day, I thought I'd finish this lyrical little piece and toss it out into the world. These sketches are roughly supposed to follow the months of the year, so perhaps this is the November chapter…

Disclaimer:

See part I

IV: Rainy Day in Rouge City

I'd just been to the Public Library on the Lower Deck, doing some research for a historical novella set early in the last century, about the time of the Taliban conflict; I'd had a long morning of looking at ancient vids of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, back before the rising waters flooded Manhattan-hard to believe people actually walked those streets that now lie underwater.

One thing I'd failed to consider, which is going to oblige me to substantially rewrite some of the scenes I've already written, was the climate change: The rain didn't come as often as it does now, a factor which I grew strongly aware of as I headed home. The drainage pipes along the huge concrete pilings supporting the Lower Deck were clanking with runoff water. People on the escalators coming down were lowering umbrellas or their shoulders and hair were gleaming with wet drops.

I reached into my pack and drew out my umbrella as I mounted the escalator. As I neared the top, a light wind blew the spray of rain against the lenses of my mirrorshades. I put up the umbrella against it.

Main Plaza was almost devoid of people when I reached it. The cloudy sky had darkened, which brought out the neon lighting, now softened to pastel shades from the rain. The few passersby scurried past, out of the rain (clearly the Orgas who had forgotten their umbrellas).

A warm, soft breeze blew up under my umbrella. If it had been the cold breeze we'd had most of the month, I would have been objecting, but the air felt invigorating and refreshing. I stopped and lowered my umbrella, letting the drops fall on my face in tiny wet kisses.

"What are you doing without your umbrella up on a day such as this?" a suave voice asked me.

I looked about. Joe stood alongside of me, under the shadow of a black satin umbrella he carried, his free arm akimbo, his curled fingers on one hip. He regarded me with his brow lightly gathered, but with his lips curled in a mischievously bemused smile.

"Oh, I'm just flirting with the raindrops," I said.

He moved in a little closer. "Would you not prefer to flirt with something more satisfying and reciprocal?" he asked. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a neatly folded linen handkerchief, which he held out to me. "Your glasses are all wet."

"Thanks, they needed to be cleaned anyway." I took the handkerchief and blotted my lenses to oblige him before I handed back the handkerchief. "It's a nice rain for a change, not the cold plonking stuff we've had so far this month. It's the kind of rain you don't mind to feel falling on your face, like it was kissing it."

He took the handkerchief, looking at me with warming eyes. "Would you not rather be kissed by something more satisfactory?" he asked. He had edged in closer to me again.

I put my hand out gently, pushing him back, but hand drew away almost lingeringly. "Thanks, but I think I'll stick to the rain drops."

He looked away primly, his eyes hooded, one delicate nostril flared in disdain. "So you toss aside my caress for the caress of some more falling water. Very well, it is your decision."

"All right, you win, pesky," I said. I pulled him back by the wrist and gave him a friendly peck on the cheek.

His smile returned and he touched the spot where my lips had touched him. "Your kiss is that of a passionate woman,' he remarked.

"I'm full of surprises," I said.

More to come…


	5. White, Gold, Greenand Rouge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This one's back (Thanks to some egg nog and a fresh coat of snow on my lawn)! There aren't many specifically themed Christmas/December holiday "A.I." fics out there. To my knowledge, the only one that sort of qualifies is Bryan Harrison/pazu7's "Here Comes Another One", a dark little tale involving one of David's siblings, available through Laurie E. Smith's "Clear and Haunting Visions". For those who'd like a lighter story (especially for those who, like Yours Truly, would looovvve to find Joe under their tree…), here's my little offering.

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

Chapter V: White, Gold, Green…and Rouge

Right when I thought there couldn't be any more loud lighting in this town, the day after Thanksgiving, the service droids are at work putting up strings of Christmas lights in the trees, and the Christmas displays go up in the windows of the shops downstairs. The female lover-Mechas start wearing red and green get-ups, ranging from red babydolls trimmed with white marabou to red and green bikinis with little flashing red and green lights on 'em. Others are dressed like Santa's elves; still others are clad in thin white chemises spangled with silver and gold stars, which make them look as if they were wrapped in tissue paper. Yikes.

Vautrin told me one snowy morning that things tend to die down in the City from Thanksgiving to perhaps the second week of December, then it picks up again.

"Christmas shopping," he explained, as we stood near the coffee kiosk where we often meet. "Nobody got time to buy the commodity we specialize in. Oh, that and people tryin' to be good for Santy Claus. But about the fifteenth, it picks up again."

"Why then?" I asked, leaning the brim of my hat over my cup of green tea, trying to keep the falling snowflakes out.

"Stress. Drives 'em here like mad. Oh, that and people getting vouchers at office parties, or the college kids going north or east sneaking in here before they go home for the holidays."

I love Christmas, even the crazy things that seem to get in the way of the real Reason for the Season. I think the All Mighty allows this kind of stuff so we'll be even more drawn toward seeking Him out, just to get away from it all; granted, some people use the stress for an excuse to go the other way, but I know I do the same things myself in different ways. I love waiting in line at the checkout when I'm doing my shopping. Eavesdropping is a major part of gathering ideas for my fiction, so I tend to peer surreptitiously into the shopping carts of the people ahead of me. This way, you get to find out what everybody else is getting for Christmas. But you have to be careful in this town: some of the stuff I've spotted I wish I hadn't seen. Don't expect many Teddy Supertoys here.

I wasn't sure if it would snow much this far south, and coming from western Massachusetts, I'm used to piles of snow on the ground. But one morning, I got up to find the city white with snow, the rooftops of the buildings fringed in white, the black polymer pavement blanketed in white. And it kept snowing all day.

I went out for a walk that evening in the Ridge Garden which surrounds the city. The sky overhead had turned the color of a light café au lait except where the neon lighting and the rainbow-hued holographic advertisements gleamed off the clouds.

I found I wasn't the only one who'd gone for a walk in the Ridge: I followed two sets of footprints, possible a man's (The strides were longer) and a woman's, walking closely side by side. They strayed off the path, although it was a little hard to tell the edges of the path from the edges of the lawns since the snow had buried everything. The woman's tracks—the smaller pair—separated from the man's and ran ahead (the tracks got wider apart). The man gave chase, his tracks consistently parallel with hers—who runs that straight except a Mecha? I followed them carefully for some distance. The man caught up with the woman. They both fell to the snowy ground in each other's arms: the prints of their bodies showed on the surface, growing confused, melded together. One of them wore a wide-skirted coat which, when opened, had swept wide over the surface of the virgin snow.

They got up and took their leave; they may have kissed for a few moments: deep prints faced each other toe to toe. Then they parted, going their separate ways. A romantic interlude written in the snow…

I followed the man's tracks almost to the foot of a tree with spreading limbs, now bare except for a few snow blossoms. He must have vaulted up into the branches. In fact he was still sitting there…

"You found me," said a suave voice.

I looked up and spotted Joe sitting in the crotch of the tree, smiling down on me.

I glanced at the tracks on the ground. "You're keeping busy: I'd think the cold would be bad for your business."

"Quite to the contrary: on these cold nights, many lonely women seek out the warmth of my company…and of my arms," he replied. He swung down from his perch, his coattails swirling. I noticed he wore a different coat than usual, the same gleaming black techno-Victorian frock coat only slightly heavier, with a velvet collar.

I reached out and took his hand in mine for a comparison. Even through the heavy knit of my gloves, I could feel his warmth.

"My, you're toasty," I said.

"If you so desire, you could discover how warm I could make this arctic night for you," he said, with a hint of suggestion.

"Just as far as the door of the Graceley," I said, letting him take my arm.

I made up my Christmas shopping list that night, and of course I added Joe's name to it. But the very next day, I realized something: I had no idea what to get him. And what do you get for someone who's technically a some _thing_? That's one thing that makes him no different from an Orga male.

In one store, I found a black cashmere dress scarf shot with silver and gold threads, ideal for him: flashy but genteel.

The cold continued through the next week and a half, right up to Christmas Eve. I kept Joe's package in my satchel, in case I should spot him on his own—and of course that didn't happen until I went out for midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

The streets were strangely quiet; the usual crowds had dispersed and gone home to their families, or the lonely folk who'd come here to escape their solitude during this season had found their night's company. The usual raucous jazz blaring from the clubs had died away, and from the near distance I could hear holiday music playing from a blues club. A light snow had started to fall, the tiny flakes glinting rainbow hues in the neon.

As I came out of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart chapel, a shadow stepped out of the glowing darkness, his steps squeaking on the snow. Joe stepped into the light, a high black silk hat with a red band tilted back on his head. Except for the over-glossiness of his face and garments and the brilliance of his unblinking eyes, he looked like something out of a Dickens Christmas story.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" I said. "Merry Christmas."

"And a Merry Christmas to you in kind," he said, tipping his hat and bowing low to me.

"How many Christmases have you seen?" I asked.

"This is but the second Christmas I have seen," he replied, setting his hat back on his head.

I reached into my satchel. "So you probably know about the Orga custom of exchanging presents at this time of year."

"Indeed I know of it: at times I have had a part in that," his eyes gleamed with mischief and barely veiled delight.

I imagined that he had, but I didn't want to think about it

"Well, here's something just for you," I said, pulling the package out of my satchel and handing it to him.

He cocked his head looking down at it, then looked up at me before he took it.

"This is for me?" he asked.

"Yes."

He carefully inserted the tip of one finger under the flap at one end and deftly pulled back the tape without even scratching the paper. He drew out the scarf, handing the paper back to me, and unfolded it.

"You gave this to me?" he asked, with awe in his voice.

"I did."

"No one has ever given me a gift at Christmas."

"Not your owner."

"He has not."

I felt a little pang at this. I could tell that whoever owned Joe took good care of him, but I couldn't help the little ache of sorrow in the depths of my chest.

"All the more reason for me to give you this," I said.

He took my hand in his and kissed it. "Thank you, Cecie," he said.

"You're welcome."

He slung the scarf around his shoulders. I helped him straighten it and loop it back so the ends hung behind him.

"And why did you choose to go to all this trouble?"

"I just wanted to," I said. "That's one of the things Christmas is all about: giving to others not just because you have to, but because you want to."

His eyes grew slightly troubled. "But I have little I can give to you." The gleam returned and he edged a little closer. "Unless of course…"

I put my hand out and kept him at bay. "Thanks, Joe, but just be my friend."

More yet…

Afterword:

If you'd like more sci-fi with a Christmas theme, check out _Miracle and Other Christmas Stories_ by Connie Willis. It's "mad cool" in the words of my friend "fom4life"; the stories tend to be gleefully dark, humorous with a touch of menace, the kind of stuff I drool over. For "normal" holiday fiction, I also recommend John Grisham's _Skipping Christmas_ , which actually cured me of not wanting to bother much with Christmas last year; it which makes a case for the importance of all the crazy stuff that's gotten tacked onto celebrating the birthday of the King (It would also make a hilarious movie: I hear the film version is in the works, and I'm hoping the producers have the foresight to cast William Hurt [Dr. Hobby to us Mecha-huggers] as Luther Krank, the put-upon protagonist who doesn't know what he's getting into when he and his wife try to side-step the holiday hoopla.).


	6. New Year's Faux Pas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

In time for the New Year, I have Cecie's full account of the New Year's Eve smooch which she talks about in "Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City". I actually wrote this New Year's Eve; I suppose one can argue that this is a bit of a Mary Sue on a tangent, since I still didn't have anyone to kiss me at midnight for luck, least of all someone as good a kisser as Joe.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter VI: New Year's Faux Pas

I usually stay put in my rooms on New Year's Eve, not because I'm anti-social, but just because I've had some nasty experiences at New Year's Eve parties. In college, I let one guy kiss me at midnight at one such party, which he took to mean he could go further, but I think that guy quickly resolved, on the spot, never to try that again with anyone.

But, at my first New Year's Eve in "Sin City, U.S.A.", I decided to go out and see what I could see. Rouge City is like one giant New Year's Eve party most of the time any way, so I had to see how wild it could get.

The partying started even before nightfall. Crowds of people poured into the streets. Music blared over loudspeakers and the squares were jammed with gyrating couples. People streamed into the clubs, as if they were serving free drinks or something. As a matter of fact, I later found out they were serving free drinks. Every sex bot in the city must have been on the streets, and most of them had business. A **_lot_** of business. I tried to keep close to the walls and facades of the buildings to avoid the press of the crowd, but I nearly tripped over and bumped into couples heavily engaged against the walls.

I found a small oasis of relative calm around the door to Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart chapel. I nipped inside to get in out of the horde and to say a few prayers for the people mobbing the streets, that they might find something better…

As I stepped out onto the street again, I nearly walked into Joe, who stood in his usual spot against a lamppost, in between customers. He turned to face me with a click of his heels and a flick of his coattails.

"So are you among the many who have come out to break the resolutions you mean to keep for the New Year that begins tomorrow?" he asked, eyes dancing.

"No, I don't make those kinds of resolutions; I don't have to," I said.

"What then did you resolve?" he asked, looking into my face with that "Come now, you know what you want", look in his brilliant eyes. His smile widened a little and the smolder in his eyes warmed up, just on the verge of turning to an electrical fire.

I smiled back. "Nope, I can't tell them to you or to anyone else, or I'll be less likely to keep 'em."

"You have that mistaken. That course of action is what you Orga take when you make a wish and you want it to come true," he teased.

"Well, that's the way it works with me. I used to tell people my resolutions, in the past, and then I never kept them."

He cocked his head. "Why did that happen?"

I shrugged. "I dunno."

At that point, a stocky, bosomy old dowager in her fifties, bundled up in a fur coat and a pouffy hat toddled up, her eyes on Joe.

"Oh my, aren't _you_ the cutest little thing!" she squealed, clapping her hands. "You're just the fellow I was looking for."

"Are you sure of that?" Joe asked, teasingly, as he stepped up to her.

"Oh, I'm sure of that, you sweet young thing," she cooed, drawing him away with her.

I hung around, knowing he would probably be back, depending on what the dowager asked of him.

I whiled away the time making up a scenario for the dowager. She was…the widow or the ex-wife of someone who owned a silicon rendering plant: huge money there…lonely as a sock missing its mate in the laundry, has a different companion every night: Orgas, Mechas, all of them young guys in their twenties, but she has an especial place in her heart for boys with British accents because…her first love was a young British actor she wanted to marry, but…her wealthy father refused to allow it.

Sure enough, a half an hour later, Joe returned, straightening the skirts of his coat and looking rather pleased with himself.

"That didn't take long," I said.

"She was but a childlike woman who wanted only a gentle massage to calm her senses before she settled down to sleep," he said. "Not all who ask for me by name desire the most physical of my capabilities, you among them." He paused, considering me with warm eyes. "But there is a difference with you."

"Oh?" I asked, innocently.

He looked me up and down, his eyes returning to my face. "You seek my company as an end in itself, not as a means to another, less innocent end…No one has ever before approached me thusly…and I find it very arousing." He edged closer to me, his hips cocked, anticipating more.

"We're all different," I said, coolly but not coldly.

"But would you not desire a higher level of delight? I can lead you to the highest pinnacles of pleasure."

I shook my head. "No, you don't have to do that, Joe. Like I've said: we're just friends."

He stepped back slightly, his eyes cooling and assuming a bit of a sad-puppy look with a touch of puzzlement, as if to say, _These Orgas and their varied demands…_

Another Orga with a different demand than mine approached Joe: a tall woman wearing a black topcoat over what was clearly a "power suit".

"You there, the Mecha: what model are you?" she said.

"A Companionates model J-04679," he said.

"You're just the kind I'm looking for." She took him by the shoulder and drew him away with her, steering him through the crowd.

Now, she's a designer or some bigwig like that at another corporation, sampling the abilities of the competition's product, I thought. Yeah, she's arranged the trials for several dozen models, but she's never allowed to take part in those trials, or she'd be biased by what she knows. But…she secretly grades new models on her own, keeps a very detailed list of every Mecha she's ever consorted with…coupled with? Except for one word in particular, I was at a loss for a word to label this kind of action. Gad, that woman was more machine-like than Joe was. I wondered if she'd ever cried out with delight in any Mecha's arms.

A whole hour and a half later, Joe returned, straightening out his shirt collar as well as his coat.

"She put you through your paces, Joe?" I asked.

"Indeed she did," he said. "She ordered me to disrobe completely before she would so much as touch me, denying herself of discovering the beauty of my form for herself."

"I imagine she must have been difficult to please."

"These experts are indeed difficult to pleasure." He leaned closer to me with a conspiratorial air. "Women like her know far too much about the limits of my talents, therefore they test those limits."

"I imagine there must be some things you can't do."

A disheveled woman approached us, walking so crookedly that she nearly fell over at every step.

"Hey, you two fellas, how much f' bofe ah yahzz?" she asked, thickly.

"There is but one of me, but I cannot tell you my fee," Joe replied.

"Why naw?" she slurred.

"You are in no condition to be able to enjoy fully the delight of my company," he said.

I stepped out of the shadows. "Ma'am, you okay? You need someone to help you back to your hotel room?"

"Hotel 'oom, yeah. Hotel Sssa'fire," she managed, looking at me with unfocussed eyes. I took her by the arm and steered her to the hotel, Joe following us as a kind of rear guard. Once we got her inside the hotel door, a doorman and a clerk took her up to her room.

"When a woman drinks herself into that state, it is a sign she is trying to keep something in her brain from functioning," Joe observed as we walked back to his usual spot.

"You're absolutely right on that one," I said. "Let's see…her husband left her, and her kids are mad at her because she was partly responsible for their dad leaving…so she's trying to drown her sadness and her guilt in vodka."

He looked at me, head cocked. "How do you know of all this?" he asked.

"I don't really know it: I'm just guessing it, making up possible scenarios."

"Ah…this sounds like a delightful trick with which to pass the last minutes of the old year in anticipation of the new," he said.

I glanced at my watch. It was already half-past 23.00, getting closer to the big 24 and the first minutes of 2158.

Oddly enough, no one else came looking for Joe, so we stayed put, basically. I started dancing just to keep warm at first, so he—by nature!—joined in. I let myself loose then, singing along when I knew the words.

But then the music cut off. A drum roll rattled, the sound filling the square. The crowd stopped dancing.

Overhead hung a holoprojection of a flat screen, dark blue with silver 3-D numbers counting down the last ten seconds of the old year.

5…4…3…2…1….

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As an electronic music version of "Auld Lang Syne" blared from the loudspeakers, I saw other couples in the vast crowd kissing. Not having anyone to kiss for luck, I turned and touched Joe on the arm. He looked at me.

"Just a kiss for luck?" I asked.

"Indeed…" he said, that faint smile of his widening.

I lowered my eyelids and tilted my head, turning my face to his.

He moved in, placing one hand on my shoulder, the other on my waist.

And then I felt his lips on mine, softer than mine, soft as velvet, as smooth as silk or as a rose petal. I relaxed my jaw a little; he drew back slightly, just enough to change the angle of his head and kiss me again, deeper, lips parted. Yes…just the right amount of wetness on the lining of his mouth, not slobbery, not cottony either.

I slipped my arm about his waist and drew him closer. He retracted his mouth from mine for just a split second, then we were on each other again, open-mouthed. I think our tongues must have touched because I suddenly sensed a…taste in my mouth…suggestive of dark chocolate and mint…goodness, how did he know that?

His hand on my waist spread, fingers feathered, the tip of his index finger tracing along the base of my breast. I tensed a little under this touch.

He released my mouth from his, eyes looking into mine, as if seeking a cue that I wanted more.

At that same moment, I thought I heard a camera shutter click nearby, but I couldn't be sure where it came from. I only had eyes for Joe…

"Thanks," I said, pressing the small of his back lightly and releasing him.

He let me go more lingeringly, almost unwillingly. "Are you staying out here, or shall I see you safely to your hotel?"

"I've had enough out here: I imagine it must get crazier out here as the night wears on."

We walked back to the Graceley; I took care to walk separately from him.

But this innocent—or, some would call it not so innocent—kiss came back to bite me on the nose later on.

Next day, I logged onto the 'Net to check my e-mail and take a look at the Rouge City homepage. I often have to look past some of the racier photos; but one jumped out at me.

It was a close up side-shot of Joe and I, kissing, my face partly obscured by Joe's glossy head. But below that one was a different photo, where my face could be seen better. The caption beneath them read, 'Is this local committed virgin Cecie Martin chewin' face with one of the city's most popular Mecha man-whores?'

I started blushing all over.

Naturally, a rumor started that I wasn't a virgin any longer and Joe had something to do with this. Vautrin was the first to ask me if any of this was true.

"No, it isn't," I said. "I just wanted a New Year's kiss from Joe, nothing more."

"Now that's hard to believe even though I know you fairly well," he said. "I may have to scan his cube for corroboration."

"Take it from the Orga's mouth: I only kissed him."

Next day, the pictures vanished from the website…but I still have them stored on my scriber…

More to come…

Literary Easter Eggs:

The dowager's squeal—inspired by the squeal of delight emitted by a friend of my friend "fom4life" as she was passing by a window display of stuffed ducks at the Boston F.A.O Schwartz (And then she let out similar noises as we passed by the window displays at Shreve, Crump, and Lowe across the street!).


	7. NonStop Party Crashers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's note:

For a while, I've wanted to write this chapter describing, at some detail—though not enough to up the rating!—the famous "party that's lasted five years" that gets mentioned from time to time in the series involving Cecie Martin. And so, in time for the New Year and its wild parties…here it is, when it was only in the beginning of its second or third year. Oh, and regarding Cecie's black fedora, which gets a mention here: I just got the twin of it as a Christmas present, so this chapter is sponsored in part by Stacy Adams hats.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own the song lyrics that decided to become the epigram to this chapter, which belong to the 1960s group Three Dog Night (I listen to the local "Golden Oldies" station as I write my fics, which is why they get so heavily influenced by old music!), or to whoever wrote it.

Chapter VII: Non-Stop Party Crashers

"This is the craziest party there could ever be

Don't turn on the lights, I don't want to see…

"I seen so many things I ain't **_never_** seen before

Don't know what it is. I don't wanna see no more!"

-Three Dog Night, "Mama Told Me Not to Come"

I'd lived long enough in Rouge City that I'd accumulated plenty of stories inspired by the City and its inhabitants and visitors to fill a book. My boss at the firm I work for told me that her uncle, a book publisher, might be interested in seeing it. He'd be in Rouge for a week the following week, since he had been invited to a party up on the 15th floor of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in the city.

Now, before I go on to tell about my adventure on the 15th floor, I'd better give you the background on the party that's been in progress now for two years, otherwise this will look like any other wild Rouge City party.

About a year before I came to live in Rouge City, some wealthy leisure class goon who owns a huge chunk of stock in Cybertronics and a couple other Mecha corporations decided it might be cool to throw a party in one of the hotels here in town and see how long it could last before his money ran out. Well, to give you an idea of how wealthy this goon—Dickie Boswell—is, the party is still going on two years later, and shows no sign of stopping. Getting invited there is considered something of an honor. I don't know how many famous people have been seen going up there. Some folks get invited back on a more or less regular basis, to the point that they treat it almost as a vacation of sorts.

Oddly enough, the city itself is subsidizing the party since it has helped generate an incredible amount of revenue. The planning board even waived the necessary event license usually required. Rouge itself generates about as much revenue as the GNP of a small country; I don't know anything about economics, but that makes me wonder why East Pennsylvania and New Jersey were stupid enough to pass on having Rouge within their borders. Sometimes I have visions of there being a civil war fought over who gets the City and its revenues.

But I digress…The party has since taken over most of the rooms on the 15th floor; they hire about twenty male and twenty female Mechas at a time, rotating them each week, so that there's always a different pack there. Some models had even had their trials at "the Party". Joe has had a couple "tours of duty", to use a military phrase, six months apart, and according to Vautrin, he was due for another.

"So that's where he goes when he disappears for a week at a time," I said over my tea, as I talked with Vautrin.

"Oh, you noticed," he said, insinuating.

"I just like to keep track of my friends' whereabouts."

I'd have no way to get into the party to meet my boss's uncle, since it was impossible to get in unless one was invited. And getting an invitation was one thing Vautrin couldn't fix for me.

"You probably have the best way to get into that wingding, better than an invitation," Vautrin said when I explained the situation.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Don't be an airhead: I mean Joe."

I could have slapped myself upside my own head. Of course! "You mean just sneak in on Joe's coattails?"

"Just what I mean," Vautrin said.

How nitwitted could I be? If there was anyone I could crash the party with, that someone was Joe. He'd be perfectly compliant about it. I'd just have to give him the fair warning.

I met up with Joe the next day, in front of "Tails". As is usually the case, he was pretending to ignore the place, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught him mimicking the dance moves of "Rodolfo", the hologram guy on the marquee.

Joe turned to me with a flare of his coattails and paused, poised, looking at me as if to say, "You-didn't-see-me-do-that". I smiled at him.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know," I said. "I hear you got a date at Boswell's party."

"Alas for those who, like you, are accustomed to partaking in the pleasure of my company as part of their regular activity," he said.

"Yeah, I need to talk to you about that," I said. "When are you going in?"

"The thirtieth of January, no later than 9 a.m.," he said. "Approximately three days, one hour, fifteen minutes and nine seconds from now."

"Mm, that way I know how much longer I have to enjoy your company," I said. "Actually, I need to get into that party."

He cocked his head. "Have you been invited to this gathering? I did not think you preferred such festivities…Or are you collecting new ideas for new tales of the city? I thought you already had enough with which to fill a book."

"I have, and there's a guy who's a publisher who's been invited to that party. My boss told him about it my book and he's interested. So I'm going up to meet him at that party…and that's where you come in."

"What then can I do to aid you?" he asked, his shapely eyebrows rising slightly.

"Just let me go in with you, smooth things over if need be."

"And I may have to smooth the way for you, perhaps even protect you should the more aggressive company take a dislike to your presence." He paused. "Or, should they take too much of a liking to you."

"I hope you won't have to," I said. "So, I guess I should meet up with you on Demi-Mondaine Avenue about, what, ten of nine?"

"That will give us plenty of time to arrive there on time," he said.

I took his hands in mine and squeezed them gently. "Thanks, Joe. You're a dear."

"Anything to help a damsel in need," he said, caressing the palms of my hands with his thumbs and giving me that five hundred watt smile that melted my insides.

I couldn't decide how to dress for the engagement: Dress conservative and I was likely to be suspect. Dress like the rest of the crowd and I'd blend in too well.

I decided to go half-clubby, half conservative: a black simuleather blouse and a long black skirt with a slit up to the knee.

My satchel under my arm with the first three chapters in it, I met Joe in the small plaza before the Ritz-Carlton at ten of nine exactly. He smiled to me and offered me his arm. I gladly took it and swept in with him through the sliding glass doors which opened to our approach.

Because Joe was Mecha, he wasn't allowed on the elevator, which I found a little harsh and rather unusual for Rouge City, where I've seen some Mechas treated better than some Orgas. So we climbed the fifteen flights of stairs. Good thing I'm a walker or I might not have stood it. But Joe kept pace with me, better than some Orga men have done by me.

As we ascended the last staircase, two men came down, both carrying large, oddly shaped things. As they got closer, I realized they were carrying something in two pieces. Joe stepped out of their way, ahead of me as they passed us by. I realized one of the men was a Mecha serving man, carrying the nearly naked lower half of an ancient female lover Mecha, while the other man, a well-dressed Orga—presumably the hotel manager—carried the top half of the same Mecha, her head lolling over his shoulder. I glanced at Joe; he kept his eyes on me, taking little notice of what went by.

Already, noise filtered down to us, music, laughter, yelps, a crash of dishes breaking. Joe paused on the landing at the top of the stairs and turned to me.

"Once we get inside the room, we shall doubtlessly be obliged to part," he said. "Should you have any words of farewell, you would do well to say them now."

I must still have been thinking about the demolished Mecha that had been carried past. Sure, it was an old model that had doubtlessly seen better days, but who knew what could happen to Joe?

"I just want to thank you for doing this, getting me in here, and, well, if someone had told me when I started the first of my two years of college that when I finished school I'd move to a pleasure city that two states are too embarrassed to have in their jurisdiction, that my best friend there would be a drop-dead gorgeous male lover Mecha who would help me collect material for my first book, and that I'd get it published by crashing a party attended by a publisher, and said party had been going on for longer than my friend the Mecha had been around, and I would get into said party by sneaking on said Mecha's coat tail—well, in short, I'd have said the person who told me all this needed to have their head checked."

His face kept its usual sweet smolder; I figured I'd gone way over his processors, but I could have been wrong. "I think this is the part where you kiss me goodbye," I said. He moved in, aiming for my lips. "On the cheek," I added.

"In that case, let the last two years of your education not be in vain," he said. He had been listening, darn it. Never underestimate Mecha intelligence!

He kissed my cheek lingeringly. I returned the kiss, hugging him around his shoulders. He started to nuzzle my neck, so I drew back and stepped behind him.

He rapped on the door of Room 15-01.

The door opened and a disheveled man in his late forties stepped out, clad in a dark blue silk dressing gown slung around his shoulders like a prizefighter's. He looked up at Joe with bleary eyes. Then a foolish grin spread across his face.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" he said, flinging the door wide open. He slung his arm about Joe's shoulder, buddy-fashion and led him into the room. I followed them in. "Hey, ladies, look who's back: Joe the charmer."

I stepped into a dim-lit room, curtains drawn, no light except for a few electric candles and some colored Christmas tree lights hanging from a ceiling light. Some kind of trashy techno music by a group called Airplane Dregs echoed from the next room. Then it suddenly switched to "That's the Way I Like It" from waaay back in the 1970s. A group of people in the front room—Orgas and Mechas—were actually dancing to it.

A small male serving Mecha came up and took Joe's jacket, then tried to help me take off my topcoat and fedora, but I hung onto them. "I'm just visiting," I explained.

"This, Mr. Boswell, is our star local writer, Miss Cecilia Martin. She has, if I am correct, an appointment with Mr. Weston Dellingham, the publisher," Joe explained, his arm protectingly around my back. "Cecie, let me introduce to you Mr. Dickie Boswell, master of the longest party ever to run continuously in Rouge City."

"So you write? Y' ever write about this town?" Boswell asked me.

"As a matter of fact, I have," I said. "The book I'm showing to Mr. Dellingham was inspired by this town."

"Wow, betcha could write a follow-up 'bout this party," Boswell said, grinning.

"Maybe I will," I said, to be polite. My eyes had adjusted to the light—or lack thereof—and I made out shapes on the couches against the walls: various couples in various pairings engaged in a variety of activities.

"Lessee, last I knew, Dellingham was in the Jacuzzi, but I think I can fish him out," Boswell said. He beckoned to me. "Follow me. You too, Joe: there's a girl who needs yah."

"I gather there must be," Joe said, innocently.

We wove through the mob of dancers and stepped through a door connecting with the next room. The leaf of the door had been taken off and replaced with a colored beaded portiere. The air hung thick with heavy perfume, liquor fumes, and that odd borax-sewage tang of stringer.

The next room was probably the music room: a slim line MP3 jukebox stood in one corner, with a heavy-set kid punching buttons on it. People kept yelling titles out to him; he changed the tunes as fast as they sang them out.

Next room was clearly the bar. I tripped on a passed-out girl my own age, clad in fishnet stockings and a silver halter top and precious little else. Some guy nearly vomited on my shoes. A few drunken voices yelled out greetings to Joe: "Hey, lookit hooze back!" "Look what the cat drug in!" "Wow, it's the walking streak of virtual hormones himself."

"Pardon my tardiness, but I must first guide a damsel through the jungle of celebration," Joe replied, his hand on my arm.

"Aaawwww!" a collective groan arose.

Next room seemed solid with couples coupling. That's all I care to say about that. Joe practically had to lift me overs the piles and tangles of people on the floor.

"How many people are here?" I asked Boswell.

"This is a thin crowd: there's only seventy-five people here, not including Mechas," he said.

I did not want to imagine a heavy crowd.

At length, we reached the anteroom to the bath with the Jacuzzi; it was a regular hotel room, but it had been transformed into a kind of changing room/massage parlor.

A skinny kid—fully clothed in a crumpled gray suit, thank God!—who looked oddly like Joe even in the half-light stood outside the bathroom door, jotting something on a small datascriber.

"Hey, if you take one more picture of that Jacuzzi, I am going to _throw_ your damn camera into the water, so help me!" the skinny kid shouted into the open bathroom door. The plastic media pass on a lanyard about his neck marked him as a reporter.

"Try finding a space to throw to throw it in, Sweitz," a man's gravelly voice retorted from inside the bathroom.

An insignificant man in a baggy trenchcoat with a Homburg squashed down on his head stepped out of the bathroom, armed with a digital camera.

"Hot damn, that's the most people I've ever seen in one Jacuzzi at once," the short guy said, removing the memory card from the camera, sticking it into a case that hung from his shoulder and slotting another one into the camera.

"What, are they playing sardines?" the skinny kid asked.

"Their version of it," the short guy replied, with a shark-like grin that exposed his uneven teeth. He eyed me up and down appraisingly, but I pretended he wasn't there.

"Is Dellingham in there?" Boswell asked.

"Not any more," said a deep voice.

A tall, angular man in his sixties stepped out adjusting a dark green bathrobe about himself. Boswell quickly introduced me to Mr. Weston Dellingham.

"Would you mind if we stepped out into the hallway?" Dellingham asked me.

"No, by all means," I said. I turned to say a quick goodbye to Joe, but he was just going out on the arm of a small, otherwise sensible-looking girl with red hair, clad in a flaming red babydoll that looked incongruous on her, as if she wasn't accustomed to dressing like that.

Boswell found a key to the door to the hallway—Dellingham didn't want to me to have to run the same gauntlet of the seven deadly sins again. We stepped out into the hallway.

Dellingham shut the door and leaned one shoulder against it, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Pardon my appearance, I nearly forgot I was supposed to meet you today," he said.

I shrugged gracefully. "I've seen things just as bad in this town. And this might make part of an interesting story I could write."

"You could make a whole novel out of it. And don't forget the two batbrains from the newspaper. The reporter's not such a bad kid, but that midget with the camera, yecchhh!"

"My sentiments exactly," I said, reaching into my satchel and taking out the red rope envelope containing the hard copy of the first three chapters and the disk containing the whole book.

He scanned over a few paragraphs, his bushy eyebrows rising. "How long have you lived in Rouge City?"

"Almost two years, or as a friend of mine would put it: one year, seven months, three weeks, four days, nine hours, and whatever amount of minutes and seconds."

He grinned teasingly. "You sure you aren't a Mecha in disguise?"

"I'm positive that I'm Orga, but sometimes I feel as if I can relate to them better than I can to my own kind."

"I won't argue that," he said. He brandished the pages. "Just this little bit has made me want to take a break from the nonsense in there.

"Were you and I and the Mechas the only sober ones in there or what?"

"My thoughts exactly, though I'm nursing a tiny bit of a hangover. I came just to be polite to the host, but I dunno." He shook his head.

"In that case, I won't keep you from reading those chapters," I said.

"Thanks for bringing them: gives me an excuse to get away from what I went to just to get away from it all," he said, smiling half humorlessly, half humorously.

I went home by myself. I didn't hear from Dellingham—or Joe—for a week, but I got a message from Dellingham requesting hard copy of the rest of the book.

The very same day, I spotted Joe again, no worse for the wear, his usual sassy self.

More to come…

Literary Easter Egg:

I swiped the nonstop party from William Gibson's _Virtual Light_ , but it somehow crossbred itself with the party that had been going on for four generations in Chapter 19 of Douglas Adams's _Life, the Universe and Everything_.


	8. Carnal Knowledge Uproar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Author's Note:

It's been a while since I updated this one, so I wrote another chapter, this time asking a major question, "What does a lover-Mecha do if he's approached by a minor posing as an adult?"

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I

Chapter VIII: Carnal Knowledge Uproar

Late winter in Rouge City. The crowds have died down a little bit. They're either skiing in the Rockies or they're vacationing in the rebuilt Caribbean Islands (a major land engineering work in progress following the beginning of the big melt that started in earnest about seventy years ago). Not to say that the debauchery going on around my ivory tower ever really stops, but the lulls give our fine friend a chance to rest up a bit, not that he needs to rest, but even Mechas need downtimes, for self-repair or just to regroup. I've let him use my place as a nook, which means he often stops in at slightly outlandish hours, but I'm often up late getting copy finished.

But around the middle of March, there's a slight flux of tourists: mostly college students on spring break nipping into town on a surreptitious jaunt, looking for a quick bang with the older models, or, as if too often the case, to lose their virginity…or to simply out what it's like. I've heard stories about other more rebellious kids come just to flout their parents' anti-Mecha sentiments. I've heard these neo-Luddites or "Frankenstein's complex" sufferers complain that the worst thing about people having sex with lover-Mechas is that it carries no moral consequences, things like the threat of disease or pregnancy, which keep people from having their way with Orgas. But I've found that it actually carries its own set of consequences, things far more damaging than disease, for most of which we now have inoculation.

Case in point the night one guy, an otherwise highly experienced newspaper reporter, had a literally shocking night with a Swedish model at Tails. Supposedly, she had a serious electrical malfunction, a short circuit I think, and the guy got electrocuted, ending up with second-degree burns in a highly sensitive area of his anatomy, and it was debatable whether he would ever be able to engage in that kind of activity ever again with anyone. He was just thankful to be alive.

But, moral considerations aside for a moment, it might be better for a person to engage in that activity with a Mecha than with, say, a person with a mental disabilities, or someone who's comatose, or a child.

Not too many kids live in Rouge City and the few that do live on the Lower Deck. You'd imagine that these kids would be messing with Mecha as soon as they could walk, but it's really the exact opposite. Surprisingly, according to Father Nick Crawford, the pastor of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart Chapel, he's seen several young men who grew up in Rouge City go on to become good priests. It seems the native kids get so sick of sex that by the time they're old enough to really enjoy it, they freely choose a celibate life, either out of a good form of rebellion, or in reparation for the excesses they've witnessed.

No, the misguided kids who come up here for THAT brand of delight are always out-of-towners who sneak in.

Just after things started to die down after the reporter's shocking night, something else happened to get people talking.

One night, I was emailing a batch of work to my editor, when I heard a knock at my door. It sounded like Joe's quick, precise rap-rap-rap, three knocks closely spaced, but I sensed something especially urgent-sounding in it. I got up and answered it.

Joe stepped in, very quickly. "Pardon my not asking your permission to enter, but I must find shelter," he said. "There is an unwanted party pursuing me."

I closed the door to allow him better cover. "Who is it?" I asked I know he couldn't render his services to a drugged or drunk woman and I doubted he would pay attention to a minor.

"It is a girl much to young to enjoy the pleasure of my company."

"Golly, even the schoolgirls get hot for you," I teased, but this did not bring the smile back to his now blankly concerned face.

Someone knocked on the door. I pushed him behind the door so he'd be hidden when it opened. I peered out through the peephole to see who it could be, but I saw no one. I lifted the latch and opened the door to look out.

A girl about twelve or thirteen stood outside, clad in a tee shirt and capris; I couldn't help noticing she had the skinniest legs possible. As small as she was, they barely seemed capable of holding her up.

"Did you see a guy, a tall nice-lookin' guy with black hair?" she asked in a pipsqueak voice. "His name's Joe and he's a Mecha."

"Yeah, I saw him, but you don't see him now," I said, trying to sound thoroughly annoyed, hoping that would scare her off.

"Well, if you see him again, could you send him down to my room? We're in Room number 104."

"I can't do that. How old are you?"

She looked at me indignantly. "I can't tell you that, you're a stranger."

"Well, if you're not old enough to tell me your age, you're not old enough to be messing with Joe," I said.

"I'm old enough to bleed," she said, indignant.

"That's no reason to do that. You got a lot of growing up to do first," I said. I was so tempted to add, 'Now run along and go home, go play with your Supertoys," but I didn't want to talk down to her.

"You're hiding him, that's what," she said, irritated, her hands on her skinny little hips.

"None of your business if I am," I said. "Now, I'm going to call hotel security—"

She turned up her snub nose. "Then I'll just go myself," she snipped and flounced away.

I closed the door and put my back to it, shaking my head and smiling to myself. It was so awful it was funny.

Joe sashayed out of his nook and stood before me, the blank concern in his face vanishing. "You find her attentions toward me amusing."

"It's so awful you may as well laugh," I said, chuckling. He joined me, but I doubt he saw the humor. Teena stood a whole head and three quarters shorter than Joe, so even if she was of age, she'd be chewing his chest the whole time.

"But you protected me from her," he said, leaning one hand against the door, above my shoulder, his chest just inches from mine, his pager swinging and just brushing me. "Such concern deserves a reward," this with his face tilted slightly to mine, as if offering his mouth to be kissed.

"Nah, chasing her away is reward enough for me: I'm easy to please," I said, patting his shoulder. He looked a little puzzled, but his face soon resumed its usual seductive smolder. "One bit of advice though: just ignore her if she should go after you again."

"That is simple enough advice to give: but will her reaction be so simple?" he said.

"Handle that when it happens," I said, opening the door for him and sending him on his way.

I was tempted to ask Hahn, the manager of the Graceley where the girl in Room 104 had come from and if she was with someone, but I didn't want to look like I was stalking her. But I kept an eye on her comings and goings. As I writer, I've mastered the fine art of eavesdropping without being obvious and unobtrusively listening to people's conversations. Granted, in this town I've overheard things I wish I hadn't, but my craft depends on this skill.

The girl had all her meals by room service: I never once saw her in the hotel dining room. She rarely went in or out. Of course I didn't get a peek at the hotel register, so I didn't get her name. I started referring to her mentally as Teena or Lolita the Second, depending on my mood.

When I went for my breakfast one morning during this time, I met up with Vautrin, as I often do. "I got a theoretical question," I said to him.

"Uh oh, what's this about now?" he asked between sips of his black coffee.

"Okay, say a twelve year old girl was hitting on a male lover-Mecha. How would that Mecha handle it?"

"They aren't allowed to do nothing with girls that young. I mean, yeah, sixteen year olds who have their parents' consent, but that young, unh-uh. No can do."

"All right, what about a twelve year old who disguises herself? Would that fool him?"

Vautrin shook his head. "Nope, they can tell a girl's age, either by smell or by observing her behavior. Twelve year old 's gonna act a little inept, unless they've been exposed to some reeeeeaaallly sick stuff. And even then, the Mecha would smell her and realize she's not producing the same kinds of androgens as a full grown woman, even if she has a womanly figure and all."

"'Man made us better at what we do than was ever humanly possible is more than mere advertising flack," I said.

"Yup," he said, with a doubly knowing grin. "Now does this have to do with the girl that's been bugging Joe?"

"Yeah," I said. "You know about it?"

"He's mentioned it to me," Vautrin said. "Is she with someone?"

"I haven't found out, but I have this funny feeling that she's here alone."

"Ugh, and this city ain't exactly PG-13, y' know."

The second epiphany occurred when I went online and spotted a missing kids ad. I scanned the pictures, just in case I might recognize one face.

And sure enough, I spotted a picture of Teena, or rather Kira Unger, a thirteen year old who had vanished from her parents' house in Buck County, East Pennsylvania a week before.

I hit the print button on my scriber and brought the printout down to Hahn's office.

"Is this the girl in Room 104?" I asked, sticking the print under his nose.

"I can't tell you the name she's registered under," he said, dodging.

I looked him in the eye, over the tops of my glasses. "We've got a minor here, all by herself, as far as I can tell. So unless you don't mind having a scandal on your hands, I suggest you contact the police."

"I'll have to look into it," he said.

I had two epiphanies that afternoon. First, I saw Teena—or Kira—coming up the stairs, carrying a box from a lingerie shop on the Lower Deck. But more importantly, she was sporting a hair-do and a makeup job that she'd clearly had done to make herself look like she was in her twenties. It looked so convincing that I barely recognized her at first, but then she got closer and I realized this was not a midget.

I suspected Teena—or Kira—was going to make her move that night, so I sat in the lobby, reading a newspaper and watching for Joe.

At length, he came along, making a beeline for Room 104, a rose in gold foil behind his back. I got up and went after him, touching him on the arm. He paused and turned on his heel.

"Where are you going?" I demanded.

"Someone in Room 104, one Korlie Unger, has called for me by name," he said, holding up his pager for me to see.

"That's not her," I said. "It's that little girl who's been after you."

He eyed me a little puzzled. "Have you been spying upon her?"

"I couldn't help it," I said. "When you live here, you start to notice who's just passing through and who lives here." He had turned to continue on his way, but I kept in step with him. "I'm warning you, Joe: there's going to be bad trouble."

We'd reached the door by now. He only gave me a mischievous smile, as if twitting me for being jealous. "If there is any trouble, it will doubtless be only good trouble." He knocked on the door, and peered into the eyehole. "Ms. Unger, it's Joe."

The door opened wide enough to admit him. He stepped through. The door clicked shut behind him.

I heard a startled exclamation behind the door and something thump against it, then a lot of loud rustling around.

"Ms. Unger, I can't [unintelligible]. You're much too young," Joe said, sounding confused.

"I'm old enough to bleed; why can't I have you?" Teena—or Kira—replied, petulant.

"You are much too young to enjoy it," Joe said. "You would land us both in bad trouble."

"Just lemme see what you got there." More rustlings, some unintelligible yelps, then a loud gasp and the door flew open.

Joe bolted out into the hallway, refastening the front of his trousers (for the record, I inadvertently got a glimpse of what all the yelling is about, but that's all I'm gonna say about THAT) as he ran for the front door. Kira—or Teena—ran after him, clad in some kind of black lace confection meant to make her look more mature. It had clearly been made for a much more busty girl even if the front was designed to enhance her bust, which it didn't since she hardly had anything to enhance.

I hit a security call button in the wall. Next thing I knew, Hahn and two guys in rent-a-cop uniforms come charging in. Kira had somehow caught up with Joe and was trying to unfasten his fly as quickly as he was fastening it. The guards managed to separate the both of them.

The hallway quickly filled with people: guests, hotel workers, even a few other lover-Mechas. One of the guards questioned me as to why I hadn't intervened sooner; I explained that I had tried to intervene—at both ends—but no one had heeded me.

Of course Kira/Teena played the Potiphar's wife card. She'd yelled rape when the rent-a-cops showed up, but that clearly wasn't the case. Everyone had seen her trying to undo Joe's buttons when he wasn't even trying to touch her.

Kira's parents came looking for her that day; I'd later hear that they'd gotten doubly suspicious when they got some strange charges on their credit card. I didn't get the satisfaction of seeing them give her a well-deserved tongue-lashing, and I could only imagine the excuses she'd come up with to get out of that one. And it turned out that she hadn't come from the kind of broken home you'd expect: she actually came from a fairly decent family. And there was an added dimension: her father worked as a designer for the company that had made Joe.

The newspapers bristled with op-ed pieces on the incident for a week. One writer said the city needed better guidelines on how to keep out underage individuals. Others stated that there should be no restrictions on minors…whatsoever.

I didn't see Joe for a few days, so I wondered if his owner had confined him to the house...or worse that they'd sold or scrapped him. But then, about a week after the incident, I spotted him on Main Plaza, accompanying a woman almost three times his age (by appearances).

More to come, someday…


	9. Heat Up, Cool Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

by "Matrix Refugee"

Disclaimer:

See Chapter 1

Author's Note:

About time I got back to this one, or to just post SOMETHING, or part of something. There's been a surge of new talent lately, a lot of new fics from a lot of new writers, so I've been letting them have the spotlight. About time I wrote something dealing with a certain green-eyed love machine...

**********

Chapter IX: "Heat Up, Cool Down"

Summer days, I stay put, copywriting Christmas flyers and winter travel brochures, a pitcher of iced tea beside my datascriber, mp3 player blaring Christmas music drowning out the hustle and bustle that creeps in, window closed and the air-conditioner on low. Too high and you get soft so you can't take the heat when and if you venture out.

Late in the afternoon, as the sun is sinking, I shut off the air conditioner and crack open the window for some fresh air. The wind coming in off the river helps cool down the air, but nothing ever really cools this city down.

20.00. As the sky grows dim and the neon starts to glow off the haze, after supper, after I send off my day's work to the client, I head out for my nightly walk, hitting the street.

Summer season is the peak time of the year for crowds of visitors from everywhere, from all over the States and even from other countries. Not just Orgas coming in for the city's stock in trade: quite a few new models of lover-Mechas are brought in for their trials this time of year.

I have to elbow my way through the crowds on the boulevards. A few scruffy young men try to reach for me thinking, in their eagerness, that I might be a Mecha. Thank God for my naturally scrawny figure, which quickly puts them off, as does my deliberately stand-offish approach - and my thick glasses. Who ever saw a lover-Mecha with tin rimmed specs?

I move through the pulsating jungle, past crowded bars and casinos, past dance clubs with their floors almost too packed for the gyrating couples, clusters and groups. Rainbow-hued neon gleams off skin, either slick from sweat or from its silicon base. Laughter, giggling, bawdy, raucous, ripples through the backbeat that is the anthem of this city. The warm night air oozes with dozens of aromas, sweet vanilla, salt of sweat, heady musk and more less innocent or pleasant.

Would-be lovers offer me their wares, strutting males steaming with machismo, tight pants, open-necked shirts, some shirtless. Hey there, honey, you lonesome? Looking for some company? Want it rough or slow? I glance at them for a nanosecond, but not finding what - or rather who - I'm looking for, I turn them down. Nope. No thanks. Sorry, not my idea of fun.

I keep walking through the sultry streets. The back of my neck cakes up with grime and sweat. I stop by a fountain in the middle of a plaza and sit down on the lip of the low basin, right where the spray can hit me without drenching me. When no one is looking, I take off my glasses, turn, and plunge my head into the water (It isn't very deep, barely a few inches), eyes closed, nostrils pinched shut.

I pull my head out and shake out my dripping hair, head tilted back so the spray falls over me.

"Are you trying to drown your loneliness in that fountain? I know of a more effective way," asks a silken baritenor right next to me.

I blink the last of the water drops from my eyelashes and turn toward the soothing sound.

And Joe is sitting beside me on the edge of the basin, long legs extended gracefully, clad in the summer version of his usual late Romantic Era retro: cream-colored shirt with the cuffs unfastened and rolled to his elbows, Byron collar open almost to his slender waist. The corner of his phosphorescent green operating liscense glows, just visible under his collar, but not half as bright as his eyes.

"Nah, I'm just trying to cool off on a warm night like this," I reply.

"It would appear, since your labors require little effort, this climate would not overheat your flesh," he said.

"You'd think it wouldn't, but it does." I looked him up and down. "Does the heat ever affect you?"

"It does not, no more than the chill of winter," he replied. Now it was his turn to scrutinize me. "But will not the cool of the water soaked into your garments chill your more delicate person? Perhaps you should get out of them."

He said this with, at one in the same time, an innocently concerned lilt coupled with a deliciously suggestive note hinting at something other.

"Oh, be off with you!" I teased, and I flicked a handful of water at him, right into his lap.

He started back slightly, his eyes scanning my face, reading it to determine the motive behind my gesture, a pucker of puzzlement and mild alarm between his neatly arched brows. But that quickly smoothed away.

"One turn deserves another in kind," he said, and flicked some drops of water in my general direction, nowhere as hard as I had, but with this impish glint in his eye.

"Oh yeah?" I drawled, and I splashed him back, using both hands, creating a bigger wave. The water ran right off him, skin, clothes and all.

"Oh yes," he replied, adding another teasing little splat.

I must have gotten excited. The splash I gave him back didn't amount to much: my hip slipped on some of the water I'd spilled on the basin and I nearly slid in. Joe reached out and caught me around the waist, keeping me from falling in.

"Ooh, you saved my life!" I crooned in a mock swoony voice, smiling up into his face as he helped me to my feet.

He shrugged one shoulder gracefully. "I was merely keeping you from getting yourself thoroughly sodden," he replied. "Unlike the way you treated me."

"Oh, don't be such a drip: you're the one with the water-proof skin," I retorted, my eye on the small puddle that had formed at his feet.

(More someday...)  



	10. The Pleasure of Doing Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

+J.M.J.+

Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe

by "Matrix Refugee"

Disclaimer:

See Chapter 1

Author's Note:

I know! It's a summer chapter, but I misplaced the manuscript, and it wasn't until recently that I found it. Enjoy a little Indian summer in the middle of autumn...

* * * * * * * * *

Chapter 10: The Pleasure of Doing Nothing

With the kind of work that I do, I'm able to make my own hours. I'm industrious, but I know when to stop and take a good break. After the rush of Christmas copy in August, I take it easy for a couple of weeks, write fiction exclusively and let myself have a vacation.

I've always been a bit of a homebody, not so much that I don't venture out (or else I wouldn't be writing this!) but just enough that I can find adventure in my own backyard or just around the corner. It also helps to live in a city which most people come to for *their* vacation.

I never need to pack much: my lunch, my binoculars, a book of poetry, a notebook and a couple mechanical pencils.

Then I made a quick call to Sapphire Enterprises, the escort service that owned Joe. Not for THAT, mind you. Just as a companion, someone to keep me company.

Joe met me at our designated place about noon: at a park bench under an oak tree in the park west of Main Plaza, in the middle of an upscale residence district. It was away from the main thorughfares, but plenty of people, tourists and locals, shuttled in and out of the park.

"Mr. Vautrin tells me you desired the pleasure of my company while you were on vacation," he said, as he sat down beside me.

"Yep, I'm just taking a break from my work, thought I'd spend some time in the fresh air."

He glanced up at the clear blue sky, from which the sun shone unhindered. A cool breeze ruffled his hair. He turned his gaze back to me. "You could not have chosen a better, more beautiful day to spend out in the midst of nature," he observed.

I told him about the writing projects I'd just finished up. He listened with well-practised attention. While ate my sandwich, he told me of the latest news on the street: of a femal lover Mecha who had been caught stealing her clients' wallets, at least until one man caught her in the act and turned her in. It turned out she had some faulty programming, but her owner was having that taken care of.

He started another tale as I finished my sandwich, but my attention had started to wander as I watched the people passing by the bench.

"I'm sorry, My body's here but my mind is all over the place," I said.

"And why is that?" Joe asked, curious.

I raised my hand slightly, pointing it at the passersby. "I'm just watching the crowd and wondering what people are up to, where they're going."

"Indeed! You craft tales of man's behavior, you would want to know the story of every man and woman you encounter," he said. "Then you would have more stories to retell."

"Of course I'd change the names and a few details, protect people's privacy," I said.

He seemed to understand: the mysterious little smile that curved his soft lips suggested several clients had shared confidences with him, secrets in the night he would protect.

A tall, well-dressed woman walked by, arm in arm with a small, dark male Mecha, she keeping him close, he chatting her up with a hint of suggestion, she listening in cool silence, as if she were sizing him up before she took him back to her hotel room.

I discreetly pointed her out as she passed out of hearing range. "You see her?" I said.

"Yes, I saw her as she passed us by," Joe said. With a suggestive smile of his own, he added, "I have seen much of this fine lady of late."

"Okay... she's an accountant for a large Mecha corporation. She's married, but she likes making educated comparisons between her company's product and those of rival companies. But her husband is this mousy little guy who doesn't dare confront her about this, so . . . he finds comfort in reading publications from the ARM."

Joe bent his head. In a conspiratorial whisper he said, "That scenario might not be so far from the truth." From the secretive little smile that just touched the contours of his mouth, I wondered if my guess had come close to what he knew about her.

Next, two college-aged guys passed by with a shapely auburn-haired female Mecha between them, her arms across their backs, the three of them chatting together cheerfully.

"Okay, the guys are Leroy and Hank. Leroy brought Hank here because Hank has been having trouble finding a girl: he comes on too strong, so they've hired Fantine there to teach him how to be sweet to a girl. Only trouble is Leroy wants some of the fun, too, so they're gonna get into a squabble over her tonight and end up knocking over the furniture in their hotel room."

"I have heard of such things happening in this city," Joe said.

A tall man, well over six feet tall, passed by with a female Mecha who couldn't have been any more than four foot six.

Joe nodded toward them. "And what of that delightfully contrasting pair?" he asked.

"Okay, that's a little sad, but it has a good ending," I said. "His wife wasn't much taller than that little Mecha. She passed away some time ago, and he's been lonely since then, so he came here to get away from it all... and then he met her last night. They spent the night together and he's decided to buy her, although he knows his relatives will think he's stark raving mad. They'll try to have him put in a mental hospital. But then they'll see how happy he is with her and they'll relent."

"Love doth conquer all," Joe said.

"I'd like to see it happen more often," I said, hearing a trace of sadness in my tone. I brightened up, "But I have an imagination: if it can't be so in real life, I can make it so in my head or on paper."

"You use this gift well," Joe observed.

At that point, Vautrin passed by the bench where we sat. He caught sight of us and approached us, eyeing me quizzically over his glasses.

"Hey, Cecie: I thought you were on vacation," he said.

"I am on vacation," I said.

He furrowed his brows at this. "Yeah but, when you go on vacation, you're supposed to, like, go some place else."

I shrugged. "I came to this bench."

"A park bench in the middle of Rouge City isn't the typical idea of a vacation getaway," he returned.

"Depends on how you define a vacation getaway. I had a friend who called it a vacation if he could have a nice long soak in the tub without any interruptions. I think of a vacation as getting out of the usual grind, finding a nice place to sit and do nothing with a friend, chat, make up stories about the world going by."

"And she could hardly have chosen a better companion with whom to do nothing," Joe put in.

Vautrin shook his head with a slightly bemused smile. "The two of you are classics," he said. And with that, he went on his way.

I turned to Joe. "Thanks for putting in a word for me," I said.

"I would not be a gentleman if I did not speak up on your behalf when he was questioning your ideas of comfort. You defended yourself well. You only needed the affirmation of another."

"And you said it best when you told him off like that: If I'm gonna do nothing in this town, I'd rather do nothing with you."

He smiled, stayed up by words of praise. That's when I realized the double entendre in his words. "Doing nothing with you . . ." I murmured.

The realization made me laugh out loud. Joe regarded me sidewise, puzzled at my outburst of mirth. But soon his processor kicked in. The blank look in his eye took on a look of innocent mischief, but he had a slight "cat-that-ate-the-canary" smirk in one corner of his mouth. He knew.

We chatted well into the evening, the sky over us darkening as the sun sank behind the buildings. As the sky overhead went from dark blue to deep indigo, the stars dimmed into view. The neon lighting and the projected holo-advertising was far enough away that we could see the sky.

* * * * *

I must have dozed off. I awoke in darkness, lying on my side, with Joe lying on his side behind me, one arm about my waist, the other folded under my head as a pillow.

"Goodness," I mumbled, stretching. "What time is it?"

"Two hours, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds into September 5, 2132," he said.

"It's a wonder I didn't get picked up for loitering," I said, sitting up. Joe sat up with me.

"Is your vacation over then?" he asked.

"Yeah, I should let you go, you'll be missed." I looked at him squarely. "What made you stay?"

"You were alone. I could not leave you out in the open, unprotected," he said.

I smiled at him as I collected my things. He tried to take the basket from me, to relieve me of its weight as we walked out of the park, but I refused him.

"You'd better be off, you'll be missed," I said.

"Indeed," he replied. "Someone must needs serve the needs of the lonely who flock to this city, seeking a moment of solace this night." Even as he spoke, a girl in red dropped him a wink from across the square. I released his arm, letting him go to her. But even as I did this, I sensed a pang in my heart. I wished that more people could see him as I do, as more than just a good looker with charming manners, amongst more carnal attributes, but also as an incredibly beautiful intelligence, albeit attached to a body of silicon.

(More to come, someday...)  



	11. This Thing Called Eating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TITLE: "Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe" Chapter 11

J.M.J.

TITLE: "Conversations with a Mecha Named Joe" Chapter 11

AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"

RATING: PG-13

ARCHIVE: Permission granted!

FEEDBACK: Please? Please?

SUMMARY: Joe asks Cecie an odd question about human behavior.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, Amblin Entertainment, et al.

NOTES: It took me a while to update this, and it's a rather belated chapter dealing with St. Valentine's Day in Rouge City: I inadvertantly misplaced the rough draft. Better late than never!

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Chapter 11: "This Thing Called Eating"

I thought that Christmas in Rouge City was pretty wild, but it didn't hold a candle to St. Valentine's Day, which has to be the official holiday for the place. They celebrate it for the whole month of February, much in the same way Salem, Massachusetts used to celebrate Halloween for the whole month of October, before the sea rose and swamped it.

All month long, the prototypes for new models are brought to the city to have their trials in the various clubs all over town. During my walks, I've seen transports from different robotics companies shuttling up and down the streets and crews unloading coffin-sized crates and boxes from them, or pushing them on carts along the sidewalks and down alleyways to the side-entrances of the clubs.

Somehow, I found out from Vautrin that Joe's inception date was coming up, on February 14th, no less!

"I'll have to think of something special for him," I said, smiling at this bit of information.

"Well, don't bother makin' him a cake: Things like him don't eat."

"I knew that much: Our neighbor next door when I was growing up, had to let their handyman go since he kept mooching from the wine cellar; they got a Mecha to help out."

"Good to hear; well, not good that the guy lost his job, but when you do something stupid like that, you'll almost asking to get yer job pulled out from under you."

Despite the fact that over half the population of the city didn't need to eat, I noticed a lot of elaborate window displays of chocolate boxes... and other chocolate treats molded into shapes a lot less innocent than hearts and cupids and heart-shaped red pasteboard boxes...

The movie theatres ran marathons of classic romantic films, both dramatic and comic. And the Mechas! Their owners - or whoever chose the outfits for them - went all out putting themed costumes on them. Pink and red silk babydolls and black or red or white silk teddies proliferated on the females, while I saw quite a few dressed in Grecian/Roman gowns to make them look like Venus or Aphrodite.

This one small, chubby French male Mecha known as Julien was seen dressed as Cupid, with a pair of little white wings glued to his back, a bit of pink satin strategically placed to keep him decent, if not modest, and armed with a quiver of foam arrows, which he fired at people with a plastic crossbow. The first few times he did it to me, it was funny, but after the tenth or the eleventh time it got really annoying. I happened to be there when he fired an arrow at some snooty, highly-placed French diplomat who was in town, and bopped the guy on the back of the head while M'sieu Important was talking up a female Mecha. That was the last time I saw Julien with the bow and arrow and the Cupid costume.

The majority of the male Mechas were dressed a lot more sensibly. I saw several dressed in Shakespearean capes and tunics - Romeo in search of Juliet? - or like Sir Lancelot or some other medieval knight in shining armor, in this case made of titanium. Quite a few wore medieval tunics and carried lutes or guitars, roaming the streets in the manner of itinerant minstrels singing love ballads, while others appeared as Romantic era poets in frock coats and Byron-collared shirts.

Joe, of course, in keeping with his 19th-century-retro look, was one of the Romantic-poet types, and I didn't doubt that he had a whole library of romantic poems stored in a database under that glossy scalp of his. Unfortunately, he was so booked up that month - it hardly surprised me that he's one of the city's most asked-for Mechas - that I hardly got a moment to even so much as say hello to him. I took this in stride, but I'd be flat-out lying if I said I didn't miss him terribly.

But a couple days after Valentine's Day, when I still hadn't come up with a good "build-day" present for him, Joe came to my door bearing a small gift basket adorned with silk flowers and curls of red, white, and pink ribbon, containing a red cellophane-wrapped packet of French truffles.

"Hey, Joe, whaddayah know?" I asked, letting him in. "Is that for me?"

"Yes, an admirer gave them to me, and much as her generosity is to be admired and rewarded, it was, alas, lost upon me since I do not eat," he said. "Thus I thought that you might appreciate them."

I took the basket from his outstretched hand and set it on the table. "Oh yes I would! Thanks."

He eyed the basket thoughtfully, then turned his eye to my face. "Then you truly enjoy such things?"

"Hey, I consider chocolate to be a staple of life, to make it bearable," I said. I was tempted to open the cellophane and sample it, but I suddenly felt odd eating in front of him.

"Then it brings you pleasure?" There was this slightly puzzled look in his eye, that had me twigged.

"Oh yes it does," I said.

"Then may I ask why some women consider this thing called eating to be a burden?"

"Okay... what makes you ask me this?"

"I tried to offer this token of affection to another admirer and she refused to accept it," he said. "I could only respect her wishes, but then she started a monologue in which she bewailed being Orga and telling me how lucky I am to be Mecha and how I do not need to eat in order to maintain functionality. Then she went on to describe how her weight has been up and down but, to use her words, mostly up for much of her life and how this offering would only add to the problem.

"But you seem to enjoy some aspects of this thing called eating. Why then do you accept it, but this woman bewails it?"

That was a really complex question for me to answer and I wasn't sure how to reply to it, even though Joe has an inquiring mind and I knew he'd be happy to hear what I had to say even if he didn't really understand it.

"If it is too complicated a question to be answered, no harm has been done," he said. "I can always ask Dr. Know."

I put my hand on his wrist. "No, Joe, save your money. I just had to turn it over in my head. ... Okay, this lady who didn't want the chocolates, would you say she has a bit of a weight problem, or is she thin?"

He pondered this for a second or two. It dawned on me that he's such a romantic that he might not be able to adequately answer this question: He probably is designed to see beauty in all women, no matter how plain they might be or how they see themselves. I thought I'd throw that to him to see if the answer might help me answer his first question.

At length, he looked up at me. "No, I would not say that she does have this difficulty. She has an exquisitely shapely figure, curved as a woman's form should be."

I guessed that to mean that she had a normal-to-average figure: she wasn't a skinny little stick, but she wasn't in dire need of one of these synthetic tapeworms that have been used to treat some people with dire cases of obesity.

"There's some people who just have trouble accepting themselves the way they are," I said.

"And why do they suffer from this affliction?" he asked.

"It could be that someone who should have cared more about them put them down verbally, and now they have those words stuck in their heads," I explained. "And that's why they have a hard time seeing themselves as anything else beyond that. Or it could be that they compare themselves to others who, they think, are better-looking than they are, but there again, if they think that way, chances are they got put down when they needed someone to lift them up."

He nodded, understanding, a small gesture. "Yes. Word can indeed impact one's demeanor profoundly. Words form a great part of how I find my admirers, how I win their hearts, and all too often, how I soothe their troubled souls."

I reached out and patted his silk-smooth cheek, softer even than a baby's skin. "Good thing the robotics experts created beings like you," I said. "You make up where we Orgas fall short of the mark."

He smiled and took my hand in both of his. "And you help me to understand your kind better," he said, covering my hand with his free one.

I felt my face grow warm at his words... and other feelings arise inside me... At that moment, his pager, hanging from the chain about his neck, trilled. I moved my hand inside his; he let it go, laying my hand on my knee as he took his pager in his free hand and looked at the display.

He looked up at me with an apologetic smile. "My duty of soothing troubled souls calls me elsewhere," he said.

"You take care of her, Joe," I said. I hated to see him go, but I know he'd do some good wherever he went.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

More to come...  



End file.
